


I Was Thinking Of Growing Old With You

by Erato_Muse



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Arthurian, Avalon - Freeform, Book 7: Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, Camelot, F/M, Forest of Dean (Harry Potter), Horcrux Hunting, Illusions, Magic, Not Canon Compliant - Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, morgan le fay - Freeform, tent
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-10
Updated: 2020-10-22
Packaged: 2021-03-06 06:28:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 30
Words: 103,209
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25828936
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Erato_Muse/pseuds/Erato_Muse
Summary: Harry contemplates Hermione's comment about growing old together in the Forest of Dean; they experiment with magic and turn the tent into a sanctuary made of dreams, wishes, and memories, share a kiss, and gaze at the stars. and journey into a mysterious, magical realm beyond the known world
Relationships: Ginny Weasley/Dudley Dursley, Hannah Abbott/Ron Weasley, Hermione Granger/Harry Potter, Remus Lupin/Sirius Black/Nymphadora Tonks
Comments: 45
Kudos: 214





	1. Chapter 1

The world was ruined, home was forbidden, and Harry kept thinking of Hermione’s words, how she had thoughtfully and wearily said, “Let’s just stay here, Harry, in the forest…and grow old together.”

She couldn’t have meant it…that was what people said when they were in love, when they were proposing marriage in movies, that they wanted to grow old together.

He looked over at Hermione, curled up in her bunk, her curly hair peeking out of the bundling covers, and wondered what she had confessed. Harry left the tent. He sat on the cold ground outside the tent flap, and felt the night air against his face, looked up at the dented almost full moon shining weak silver light down on the leaves and needles of the shadow cloaked trees. The forest was so still that he could clearly, loudly hear a river flowing out of sight, and its murmuring waters roared like the ocean. 

They couldn’t stay in the forest forever, but he had an idea, and no reason not to put it into practice.

He slipped Hermione’s wand out of the pocket of his hoodie, and waved it at the tent. He closed his eyes. This was mad, this couldn’t possibly work…But when he opened them, there it was: the tent was now a small house. It was like one of the quaint Victorian cottages in Hogsmeade. He had always wondered about how the Wizard families in them lived. The only Wizard family he knew was the Weasleys…but he didn’t want to think about Ron’s fury and the cracking sound of him Apparating away, how Mrs. Weasley had offhandedly said how hard it was to arrange Bill and Fleur’s wedding with all the security precautions Harry had necessitated, the first time that he had ever felt unwelcome at the Burrow, and, most damningly, the thing he felt worst about, how when he looked at Ginny’s dot on the Marauder’s Map, he didn’t remember what it was like to kiss her.

He didn’t remember what her hair smelled like. Flowers, he knew, but he had lost the notes of it, and couldn’t recall what it had felt like, exactly, to be intoxicated and enthralled with the scent. He didn’t remember anything they had talked about during those afternoons by the lake, not that they had talked very much at all. 

When they kissed in her room, it had lacked something, but Harry thought it was because he was trying to prepare himself to pull away, to do what must be done…

“What did you do?” Hermione said, storming out of the tent in her pajamas.

“I thought it would be….nice?” Harry said. “I just wanted to try something.”

“You made the tent a house? Why? The tent was perfectly serviceable, thoughtfully devised, flawlessly executed,” she said.  
“If you do say so yourself,” Harry said, trying to hide a bemused smirk. 

Hermione assumed the grumpy face he knew so well, and ordered, “Come inside, and look,” she said.  
Her bag, which contained everything necessary or at least the ingredients to devise it, was still there, but the bunks were gone, and the walls of the tent were strangely blank and white, like a space made out of white emptiness and paper. 

“I definitely didn’t mean to do that,” Harry said.

“I know. The thing about Transfiguration is, its about visualizing deeply, and then channeling your vision into will, and then your will into an act of magic. You can’t have a shallow vision,” Hermione said.

“I was thinking of those houses in Hogsmeade,” Harry said, because he couldn’t gracefully work into the conversation, ‘I was thinking of growing old with you.’

Hermione nodded. “What about the inside?” she said.

“I’ve never been inside,” he said.

Hermione smiled, and with that small, bemused, breathy little laugh Harry knew meant that she was delighted with a challenge and an opportunity to teach someone, said, “Ah, that’s where you ran into a spot of trouble. You didn’t imagine what you didn’t know! Which isn’t usually a problem for you.”

“What do you mean?” Harry said.

“You have a very inquisitive turn of mind. One could say, obsessive,” Hermione said. “Give me my wand.”  
Harry obeyed.

“If I was building a house…a house made out of magic, that could be any sort of house I like…I’d want a nice, cozy sitting room, with a fireplace, a bookshelf full of Dickens, Austen, E.M. Forster, Fanny Burney, and William Shakespeare, …and a carpet, a soft, fluffy, carpet…and a big window, a picture window, with a window seat where you can watch the rain, or the snow fall,” Hermione said, her voice filled with dreamy appreciation as she waved her wand. 

Harry loved hearing imagination and curiosity, mixed with confidence in her voice. She waved her wand, light in her brown eyes.

“Wow!” Harry marveled, as the room transformed into the one Hermione described. 

She smirked proudly, clearly chuffed.

“We’ll need…a kitchen. And…you know, a bath,” Harry added.

“Indeed, Harry,” Hermione said. 

He smiled, amazed, having fun for the first time in he couldn’t remember how long, watching magic unfold as he and Hermione traded ideas, and the wand between them, adding touches to their ‘home’: a painting that Hermione had seen at the Victoria and Albert Museum with her parents, a closet for macintoshes, flying brooms, Wellington boots, and, possibly, hats, tables, chairs, beds, lamps, windows, lights, blankets and pillows. Together they built a cozy little world.

“But, you didn’t summon these things-where are they coming from?” Harry asked.

“They’re more like illusions. They’ll feel real, to us, because we created them,” Hermione said. “They’re parts of us. Our memories, our wishes, things we’ve seen or our idea of a realized concept.”

Harry nodded, and then, after a few seconds consideration, he began to jump on the bed they created from magic and memory, will and illusion, together. The bed was covered in a pastel quilt ,and puffy pillows. 

“Harry! You’ll break it!” Hermione laughed. 

Her brown eyes were sparkling, and the light of the lamps cast gold on her pretty face and brown, curly, hair. Harry loved hearing her laugh, it seemed to give him strength and peace.

“Nothing here can break!” Harry said. 

This was magic, as he had imagined it in a sudden instinctive flash when Hagrid told him that he was a wizard. He had envisioned magic as something like fireworks, dazzling and beautiful. Hermione had made magic feel like hope again, not like a threat.

He held out his hand to her. Hermione’s smile took on its reluctant variant, which made her eyes look sweet, soft, and shy, even in the midst of that sparkle of intelligence and confidence. She was a myriad of things, so many possibilities were housed in her, like magic itself.

She shook her head, but he waved his arm to her, and said, “Come on!”

He was feeling exhilarated and free, like when all the Dursleys went out, leaving him home to clean, but he played video games and watched movies instead. Finally, Hermione relented.  
The bed bounced them up and down, and they held hands to steady themselves as the mattress beneath them playfully lurched beneath the force of their youthful, happy jumps. Harry trained his eyes on Hermione’s. She was the steady point-she was by his side, she was in front of him, her eyes were holding his, his hands were in hers’, and he looked at her and saw the one person who had been with him through every doubt, every slander, every new challenge, every danger. All the times that he hadn’t listened to her warnings and advice flew into their home of illusions and dreams like an ominous flock of crows. He’d thought that she didn’t understand him, in those moments, but he had been fighting the truth and she was brave enough to tell him so.

That bravery had brought them to this moment, in a house whose walls were built of the union of their magic. They even shared a wand now. There was no word for how Harry felt…there was no monster in his chest, no other boy he wanted to violently displace, only a strong awareness of Hermione, gratitude for her presence, and knowledge of her beauty in a myriad ways: the softness of her hands, the sparkle and color of her eyes, the dancing music of her laughter, the enthralling bounce of her hair, and the impact of her smaller feet beside his, jumping.

They both bouncingly sat down on the bed. The momentum of Hermione’s fall landed her close beside him. They laughed more, for a while, and it felt so good. Harry felt the laughter filling his stomach and making him young again. He met Hermione’s eyes, and held her gaze.

“We’ll have to leave this place behind, eventually,” she said.

“Couldn’t we take it with us? In your bag?” he asked.

A little frown appeared between her eyebrows. Harry watched her think.

“I’ve never tried to carry a dream in a bag before,” she said, and he could tell she was relishing the challenge.

Before she could forget all about him, lost in a technical magic quandary, Harry leaned in. His time with Ginny, however surreal, had at least given him practice at kissing. He brushed his lips against her’s. It was not the deep, hard, eager kiss he had shared with Ginny, or the hungry kisses by the lake. For all the ardor they had both shown, there was a part of him that those kisses had not touched, there was something in him that had remained guilt-ridden, restless and haunted, and Ginny’s touch and kiss had made him feel like he was someone else.  
Hermione kissed him as if they had met in another life, and they were both remembering who they were and how they fit together, as if he had been lost at sea and now, finally, he was found, he was home. He was not forgetting who he was, or pretending to be anyone different. He knew who he was, he knew her, and they were the only people in the forest, protected by the embrace of magic and dreams. He needed nothing else. 

They pulled away, looking at each other with bemusement at the occurrence, both mutually thinking, ‘This is new.’

She allowed her small, soft, slender fingers to entwine with his, as they looked up at the ceiling of their new home. 

“It should be like the one in the Great Hall,” she said, and waved their wand at the ceiling. It became a tapestry of dark sky and bright starts, winking and silver.

“That’s Sirius,” Hermione whispered hesitantly, pointing at a single star in the vast array of bright lights. 

Harry started, at the mention of his godfather’s name. In a second of imagination, he had thought she meant…that somehow, he was in the forest, would enter the door of their little house shortly…he had imagined things impossible even for magic…How he would have loved to have his godfather’s help and company on their Horcrux hunt. With Ron gone, he couldn’t help but think, from time to time, of who else was no longer with them, beyond answering their needs for aid. 

“Its so bright,” Harry said.

“Sirius is the brightest star in the sky, Harry. It’s a Latin derivation of the Greek word, Seireios, which means, ‘burning.’ When its in ascendance, summer is at its hottest. Its called the Dog Star, so those days are called the Dog Days. People have used it to navigate and guide them for centuries,” she said, rattling off facts.  
Harry thought he knew what she was saying. This house built of their secrets, dreams, and magic, had pulled this pain from him, and she had recognized it. He had avoided or opposed her the year before so that they didn’t have to talk about it, hid behind the blaze of Ginny’s showy directness and the way she protected him fiercely from hard truths, fled the way Hermione pierced him right through to everything he tried to hide. But, they had survived and created so much together, there was no hiding, now. 

He had never talked about Sirius with anyone but Dumbledore…he had never told Hermione how guilty he felt, how he blamed himself for Sirius’s death. But, she knew, and her eyes were warm, bright, and understanding. She held his gaze, and then they turned their eyes to the canvas of stars, holding hands.


	2. Chapter 2

From time to time, Harry caught Hermione humming that Muggle song that went, “Our house/ is a very, very/ very fine house…” or singing it sweetly under her breath: when she was turning the logs in the fire with the poker, or tuning the radio, selecting a Dickens novel from the bookshelves, drying her hair with a fluffy pink towel, or setting the table after Harry cooked dinner. Hermione’s Transfiguration skills were being pushed to their envelope, as they tried to make recognizable meals out of greens, mushrooms, autumn berries, and spring water. The results were interesting soups and salads.  
Harry began to feel at home in their House of Dreams, and they passed their days in conversations wondering what they would be doing if it was a normal year at Hogwarts, or in companionable silences. Hermione read aloud from one of her books, and answered Harry’s questions about unfamiliar words or terms, and when they began to feel cooped up they took walks by the whispering rivers and murmuring springs within the safe bubble of Hermione’s protective charms.  
“Did you learn to swim at a pool, or in the ocean?” Hermione asked, as Harry dipped his toes in the cold water, his feet dangling from the mossy boulders where they sat. It was getting too late in the year for that, too cold, but after six years of school in the Scottish mountains, he didn’t mind it cold.  
“Neither. Dudley and his friend Piers tried to drown me in Fernham Great Pond, I wriggled away, and after a few strokes I thought, ‘oh, okay, so this is swimming,’” Harry said.  
Ginny or Ron, used to the knocks of a big, rambunctious family, would have laughed, but Hermione gave him that disapproving frown she gave whenever he made a dark joke.  
“I’m just joking,” Harry said.  
“What’s funny about child abuse? Your cousin Dudley sounds like a pig,” Hermione said.  
“Yeah, well, Hagrid thought so,” Harry said.  
Her eyebrows raised bemusedly, and she said, “What about Hagrid? He met your cousin?”  
After all this time, Harry couldn’t believe he had never told Hermione all about how he came to find out that he was a wizard. He told her all about the letters from no one that followed him and the Dursleys wherever Uncle Vernon fled, the rocky island and rickety inn, Hagrid bursting through the door, and telling him the truth about his parents and himself…and attempting to turn Dudley into a pig.  
“He reckoned that since Dudley didn’t have too far to go, the spell only gave him the one thing he didn’t have: a tail,” Harry concluded.  
Hermione rolled with laughter. Harry loved it when she laughed. The air between them became more relaxed, and she looked young, free, and pretty. She seemed to find the idea of Dudley with a tail much funnier than Harry nearly drowning in Fernham Great Pond.  
“How’d you get your Hogwarts letter?” Harry asked, when they had settled down.  
“Oh, well, it’s a bit different for Muggleborns. You get the letter, and all, but Professor McGonagall came round, talked to my parents. Of course, they had rather suspected something was up with me. Normal little girls don’t tend to animate their dolls and teddy bears to talk and walk, and act things out,” Hermione said.  
“You made your toys come to life?” Harry said.  
“How else was I to get them to act out ‘Wuthering Heights’? Barbie and Ken weren’t the ideal Catherine and Heathcliff, but it turns out Mattel hasn’t gotten round to making Laurence Olivier dolls. Go figure!” Hermione said.  
Harry laughed. “So, were your parents scared?” he asked.  
“They’re very open-minded people. They thought I had ESP, we were looking into seeing specialists in America about it. And, of course, I had read ‘Matilda’ by Roald Dahl, so I was rather familiar with the concept, too,” Hermione said.  
A family, who accepted magic? Before he could think better of it, Harry said, “You’re lucky, Hermione.”  
“I was,” she said, in a small voice, with eyes full of regret.  
Harry’s green eyes met Hermione’s dark brown ones, and he was hit with a wave of regret. She had erased her parents’ memories of her existence, to come away with him.  
“Hermione, I’m sorry. I’m an idiot, I…” Harry began.  
Hermione waved her hand. She picked up an acorn, and set it on a leaf, and floated it like a boat on the foamy riffles of the water.  
“No, Harry, don’t. It was what’s best for them. I had to do it, to protect them. We’ll meet again,” she said, with firm, unshakeable resolve. “Its nothing more or less than you did for Ginny. And, when you see her again, it will all be worth it.”  
Harry looked away.  
“Its not the same,” he murmured.  
“I think when you see her again, you’ll realize that it is,” Hermione said.  
“Don’t I have a say?” Harry said.  
“Harry, none of us know anything for sure, right now. We’re clinging to what we can, to survive. This is survival, not life,” Hermione said.  
Harry felt something deflate and sink to his shoes within him, and realized it was a spark of hope going out, even though he didn’t know what he wanted.  
“I think our house is a very, very, very fine house,” he said, in a voice just above a whisper.  
Hermione looked at him bemusedly, and a smirk bloomed on Harry’s face. Warmth and amusement danced between their eyes, and they basked in each other’s gaze.  
“You heard me,” Hermione said.  
“From time to time,” Harry quipped, and felt warm and hopeful again when Hermione laughed.  
“Its not the house, Harry. I love our house. I just don’t think we should make any decisions right now…especially not decisions about…how we feel…in a romantic sense,” Hermione said.  
“We kissed,” Harry said.  
“You’ll think me cold, but…so what?” Hermione said. “You’ve kissed Cho, and Ginny. I’ve kissed Viktor. Neither was exactly love to last the ages.”  
“That was school. We were kids,” Harry said.  
“What are we now?” Hermione asked.  
“Different people. We have been since we left the Burrow. And, we became even more different after Ron left. Its always been the three of us, and the moment it wasn’t…we changed. I know you felt it when we danced,” Harry said.  
“Yes, well…maybe Nick Cave has that effect on people,” Hermione said.  
Harry allowed a small laugh at her joke, but he was in one of his adamant, passionately insistent moods. “I felt something. It was…powerful. Deep. Like the first time I held my wand, and me and Ollivander both knew that it was the one.”  
“I think he knew I’d found the right wand when I set his shoes on fire. I shouldn’t have waved downwards when I was testing it out,” Hermione said.  
Harry knew that she was avoiding the issue. He never thought that he would be the one who wanted to talk about Feelings With a Capital ‘F’, while Hermione evaded him with cheeky humor. Had sharing a wand imparted them each with a bit of the other’s personality? Maybe it was just the effect of sharing such an intimate space, learning to be happy merely breathing and watching the ceiling reflect rainclouds, full moons, and starry skies, gazing into each other’s eyes until one of them fell asleep.  
“Hermione…” Harry said, imploring her, not disguising his plaintive need for her to look into his eyes, and acknowledge how he was feeling.  
She didn’t look away, and Harry saw a flicker of something in her eyes that he didn’t have a name for, but he knew that it had risen at the saying of her name, like an incantation that invoked a ghost or a spirit of the air. He had reached within and touched something inside her, it had answered him, and he felt like with just a bit more time and the right words, he would uncover more and more of what lived in her heart.  
“I always fancied Ron. I don’t know…I liked his hair, I liked his eyes, his voice…and, he’s funny. I know we fight all the time, but…” Hermione murmured, looking at the water.  
“I kind of always knew,” Harry admitted.  
“You knew?!” Hermione cried, with her signature indignation.  
“Yeah…I was afraid you two would get together, and split up, and we wouldn’t be friends anymore,” Harry said.  
“I never thought he would leave us when we needed him,” Hermione said. “I always wanted to…protect you. Sometimes I feel like I can feel what you’re feeling inside, and I want to be there for you as much as I can, as long as I can. But, beneath that, I know that there are things you’ll have to do alone. But, I don’t want you to feel alone, even if that part is true. I want to take the pain away, but I know that the pain is part of who you are, I can’t erase it.”  
Harry had never been told anything like that by anyone. He felt a stretching, molten warmth in his heart so intense that he wanted to bat it away. He slipped his hand in Hermione’s, and said, “I don’t know why Ron left. I wish I had an answer.”  
“I always thought we felt the same way about you that I did,” Hermione said. “But…maybe I felt other things. Things he could see, and I couldn’t.”  
Harry didn’t know what to say. Had they really lived in such a messy triangle of buried romantic feelings? Hermione knowing that she fancied Ron, not realizing that she was in love with him, Harry, Ron picking up on it and resenting it? He had always thought their friendship was simple, it was the rest of the world that was complicated.  
“Maybe,” Harry conceded.  
Hermione sighed.  
“Should we look for him? I’ve been wondering if we should. What if he’s hurt? He Splinched once, after all,” Hermione said.  
He felt the annoyance, once again, of being expected to have a plan. He hadn’t planned on Ron leaving, he certainly didn’t know how to go about looking for him. As for the rest of what Hermione had said…he really didn’t know how to sort that. It would mean examining every moment they had shared since they were 11, and trying to find the evidence of what he felt now, and what he saw in Hermione’s eyes, tracing it to the beginning. When had it begun? They had connected deeply and intensely, all of them, they had always needed and loved each other…things had just gotten heated and complicated as they got older.  
They both grew tense and looked at each other, as they heard footsteps. Something, someone was moving outside the bubble of their protective Charms.  
“Back to the house,” Hermione said, and Harry followed.  
They hurried back to their dream house, and Hermione paused against the door after she closed it, to take deep breaths. Her pert breasts moved up and down beneath her Henley and flannel shirt as she breathed, and Harry felt the familiar cocktail of shame and desire.  
“We should move,” Hermione said.  
“Yeah, too bad we can’t just drive the place up and down the country, like the Knight Bus,” Harry said, remembering running away when he was 13 and boarding the Knight Bus.  
“Why not?” Hermione said.  
Her adrenaline and anxiety turned to animation and enthusiasm, and she took the wand from his pocket without asking. Harry had to smile at that: typical Hermione Granger insouciance.  
She cast their wand over the kitchen, and out of the wall grew a sort of cockpit, with a driver’s and passenger’s seat, glass windshield, and steering wheel. The floor shook and Harry rushed to grab the coffee table before the blown glass ornaments and copies of National Geographic slid off. When that was righted, he looked out the window and saw that the house was now on wheels.  
“Hermione, you’re brilliant!” Harry marveled.  
“I know,” she said, smiling. “You rest; I’ll drive.”  
Hermione settled into the driver’s seat, and the house began to move. Harry marveled as he saw that the house was moving between narrow spaces between the trees of the forest. It didn’t move as quickly and frantically as the Knight Bus had, but Hermione was a much more careful driver than Stan Shunpike.  
“So, how does this work?” Harry asked.  
“There are pockets in the known world, spaces between. Some people think that its where magic is drawn from. Ancients called it the Ether, some call it the Void. Enlarging those spaces and using charms to keep them open is how places like Diagon Alley exist. It’s a bit easier to just travel them, as we are now,” Hermione answered.  
Thinking back to sci-fi shows and movies he had watched clandestinely on TV as a boy in the Muggle world, he said, “So, like, wormholes?”  
“Yes!” Hermione said, with a delighted laugh that he understood. “How much do you know about relativity?”  
“As much as you can learn from ‘Star Trek’ at 3 a.m. with the telly at the lowest volume,” Harry said.  
“Fair enough,” Hermione laughed bemusedly. “As we head deeper into the Ether, we may come upon communities of wizards. I don’t advise that we stop and seek shelter-they may be compelled to turn us in for gold. Do you understand.”  
“I understand, Captain,” he said.  
“We’ll be even farther away from them. From all of them,” Hermione said wistfully.  
Harry rubbed her shoulders, and kissed the top of her head. He could hear the sadness in her voice, the dismay at how much had changed, and he felt slightly guilty that with every passing day, he needed anything that wasn’t her less and less.  
  
They travelled the Ether. Hogwarts was behind them, as were the Burrow, Ron, Ginny, and the rest of the Weasleys. The pocket spaces of the magical world were full of interesting sights. When Harry looked outside the window, at different times he saw a rainforest of orchids as tall as trees, with flowers as big as dinnerplates, wreathed in the mist of a hot rain, stretching up to a rain webbed sun, or plains of ice where white bears galloped majestically after a nobly charging, horned animal; villages of quaint houses buried in wisteria, honeysuckle and rose vines clung to rushing rivers, and desert cities baked beneath a round, golden sun. All these different dimensions flashed by, and they could not stop.  
They took turns driving, until they discovered that the house was perfectly willing and able to drive itself. Until one day, it sputtered to a stop.  
“What’s going on?” Harry asked.  
“I don’t know. Maybe the wheels…” Hermione said. “Or, the thought had occurred to me..”  
“What?” Harry asked.  
“Well, I know we said that it isn’t safe to stop, but we need food. What if the house is responding to our needs?” Hermione said.  
“It is our creation. It needs us to survive, right? So, its got a vested interest in keeping us alive,” Harry reasoned.  
“Then, hopefully, its taken us somewhere safe,” Hermione said. She and Harrys eyes met. They took a fortifying drink of each other’s gazes, and ventured outside the dream house on wheels.  
Hermione grasped Harry’s hand.  
“Be careful,” she said ardently.  
Before he could stop himself, he kissed the hand that he held. He tried to impart as much as he could of the feelings he didn’t quite have the experience yet to talk about fully: that he didn’t expect her to figure out or change her feelings overnight, but that she was his home and his center of gravity, and he needed her to be careful, too.


	3. Chapter 3

Together, Harry and Hermione ventured out into another forest. It was not an earthly place, that they felt as soon as the worn soles of their trainers touched the ground. They looked around. The trees were taller than any they had ever seen, even in the Forbidden Forest. They reminded Hermione of pictures that she had seen of the redwoods and sequoias of the American west, forests wreathed in immortal mist or bearded in wreaths of a living carpet of migrating monarch butterflies. Had she ever told Harry how much she longed to see the forests of Northern California, Washington, Oregon, and western Canada? She had always assumed that both her best friends knew everything important there was to know about her…it was only now she realized that she had always been too bold in saying what she thought and what she knew, but not as forthcoming about who she was, how she felt and what she dreamed.  
Those, after all, were the things that could get you hurt if you told the wrong person.  
The trees swayed languidly in a soothing breeze that danced upon the atmosphere like a pianist’s hand across the keys, playfully touching Hermione’s hair and face. Beyond the line of trees, she could see a glistening body of water. Just a pale, bright line of the water was visible, like a lost aquamarine necklace strewn on the ground.  
“Look!” Harry said, and Hermione noticed that the trees were covered in pods that sort of looked like dragonfruit: ripe and round, but protected by spikes.  
“D’you reckon they’re edible?” Harry asked.  
“I think they must be, or nature wouldn’t have equipped them with spikes. Wherever there’s a hard exterior, there must be softness inside,” Hermione said.  
“This sounds like the preface if Hagrid ever writes a book about dragons,” Harry said.  
Hermione laughed. She and Harry shared a smile, his green eyes meeting hers’, and as always, she felt a glorious, golden feeling that was much like the victorious satisfaction of finding out a fact she had been seeking in a reference book, or acing a test…no, better, because those were solitary triumphs, things that were shared were always deeper, warmer, headier, just better.  
She shook it off. Harry had been giving her rather bald-faced hints that he felt something beyond friendship. They had even kissed, after she allowed herself to babble about the star Sirius when she noticed it on the ceiling. But, she knew not to kid herself: past behavior was the best predictor of future behavior. Harry was stressed, hounded, hunted, hiding, feeling abandoned by Ron. He wasn’t himself.  
When he was himself, he was attracted to girls with long, straight hair, not untameable curls that grew brittle and dry in hot weather and moist and bushy in damp weather; girls with dazzling smiles, not two front teeth that looked like neighboring townhouses; short girls he had to fondly look down at, not girls close enough to his height to look him dead in the eye to make a point; girls who played Quidditch, something Ginny had harshly reminded her that she knew nothing about-and, it was implied, therefore she could never understand Harry and his pain over being sidelined for the rest of the season.  
Had so much changed so fundamentally? Earthquakes could reroute rivers, swallow islands in the middle of the ocean and give birth to new ones. Had an earthquake happened in Harry’s soul, since they left the Burrow? Could these new feelings he seemed to have for her be a newborn island?  
‘Focus on the matter at hand,’ she told herself.  
“Poison,” she said.  
“What?” Harry asked, with a quizzical frown.  
“Poison is another method nature devises and employs to protect a plant or an animal in the wild. What if the fruit is poisonous to those who try to eat it, to protect the seeds of the tree?” Hermione said.  
Now that she noticed the fruit, she saw just how plentifully it hung from the tree, heavy and flesh pink, pendulous, long, its blushing flesh promising juice. She imagined it would be musky sweet and tart, like pomegranates, pulpy like mangos…her mouth was watering thinking about it. They were living off what she managed to Transfigure out of what they had foraged of the autumn offerings of the Forest of Dean, but her own jeans slid down her increasingly slender hips and flat stomach, and she noticed that Harry’s Weasley sweaters were baggier and he had to belt his jeans tighter, so that the leather tip of the belt licked from the hem of his sweater. His face was thinner, which made him look serious and handsome, his emerald eyes more prominent in his grave face.  
She was still kicking herself for telling him that he had been ‘more fanciable than ever’, that last year at Hogwarts. What had she been thinking? If he was handsome then, he was hauntingly beautiful, now, only his glasses saving him from being too beautiful to look at. Like Superman’s Clark Kent disguise, they added a humanizing touch.  
“Nature plays dirty, doesn’t she?” Harry joked.  
“She’s a mother. They’d do anything to protect their kids,” Hermione said.  
“That’s why you didn’t want your parents to have to make that choice,” Harry said.  
She looked at him, surprised that he had brought up her parents.  
“Who knows what the Death Eaters would have done to them?” Hermione said.  
“The last thing I want is for your parents to have to die for you, for any of this, the way my parents had to do for me,” Harry said. “I wish I could change it.”  
“We are, Harry. If we can fulfill the prophecy, and stop Voldemort, then we can change the world and the course of the future for the better. No one will ever have to choose death to save the people they love, not on his account,” Hermione said, with conviction she felt to the very center of her heart. She had resigned herself to the fact that this may take years, this may take the rest of their lives, they may die doing this. But, the world needed someone to do it, and they could not, would not stop.  
Harry slipped his hand into her’s, and squeezed it. She squeezed back.  
“We’ll just have to risk it. I’m bloody starving,” Harry said.  
“I am too, but how are we to know what those fruit are?” Hermione said.  
“Suck it and see, I guess,” Harry said.  
“Suck it and see?!!” Hermione exclaimed indignantly, following him with a furious stride as he walked closer to the tree.  
“We’re running out of things to Transfigure into other things! We have to eat something, don’t we?” Harry said.  
“Cotton! It has plant fibers! We can use some spare clothes, and…belts! Leather! We can try to Transfigure them into roast beef, or something. As long as we have the components, we can attempt it…Let me consult ‘Transfiguration: Standard Principles Vol, 3,” Hermione said.  
Harry placed his hands on her shoulders, and looked imploringly into her eyes.  
“Hermione! There isn’t a book to consult for everything. Sometimes, you just have to take a risk. There’s a tree, loaded down with fruit. Instead of researching everything to death, we could just pick the bloody fruit!” Harry said.  
Hermione glared, aiming heat into Harry’s gaze. He didn’t look as heated on the outside, but in his eyes was the same resolute, unwavering conviction that he brought to every disagreement, with everyone from Draco Malfoy to Death Eaters with the intent to kill. Harry’s intensity didn’t erupt like hers’, and Ron’s, it smoldered, and in the past she had found it intimidating. When he did get angry or shout, it had scared her and made her cry. But, she didn’t feel that same fluttery anxiety this time.  
“I’m not like you. I don’t just rush in. I plan, I consider, I weigh the facts and the outcomes. And I don’t see a problem with that,” Hermione said firmly.  
“What’s life without a little risk, Hermione?” Harry said.  
“Safe,” she said. “There’s taking a risk for a good reason, then there’s taking a risk that could end everything you’re trying to build, everything you treasure.”  
Harry sighed. “Fine. I’ll try it first. If anything goes wrong with me, don’t you eat it. All right?” he said.  
“Harry! That’s not the answer!” Hermione said. “Why do you always jump to the conclusion that the answer is for you to go it alone, putting yourself in danger, putting your life on the line?”  
“It just always seems to end up that way,” Harry said. “That’s what I’m trying to tell you, sometimes you come up against a thing you cant run from, you can’t plan for, you’ve just gotta react and do the best you can.”  
“I know that, Harry, but sometimes, it just feels like you don’t know how much we care about you,” Hermione said.  
“Who’s ‘we’, Hermione?” Harry said, with a bitter edge.  
The empty space where Ron had always been reasserted itself, and Hermione felt exposed. Maybe this was one of those instances that Harry was talking about, where ration, planning, and preparation would not be appropriate, only risk and throwing your weight behind the lot you’ve chosen would meet the moment.  
“How much I care about you, then. Happy? I hate seeing you feel alone and act as if you are alone, and take risks because you think…that because you don’t have your parents…there’s no one to be afraid for you, that you won’t make it out, that you won’t be all right…” Hermione said, and she definitely hadn’t planned or prepared for the welling feelings in her chest and stomach, for the emotion seeping into her voice, for the tears springing up in her eyes. She turned away.

His hands glided down her shoulders, and her back.  
“Hermione…look at me,” He said, softly, gently, coaxingly, but with and earnest plea.  
She turned around, and didn’t try to hide her tears. Her brown eyes met his emerald eyes, and she saw his intensity had leveled.  
“I just don’t want you to be hungry, anymore. I’ve done this plenty of times before, you’ve never had to. If the fruit is any good, there’s loads of it, and we can take it with us when we get moving again,” Harry said.  
“Harry, just because you’ve suffered in the past doesn’t mean that its okay,” Hermione said, and allowed herself to put her hand to his face, framing his cheek with her palm.  
He shrugged, and she looked critically at his shoulder. He smirked. That cheeky smile that some professors took as defiant…they couldn’t have known how life had hardened him, had left him with too little concern for what he might have to suffer, because he had suffered so much, for so long, been denied food, privacy, space, love and affection.  
He said, “Better me than you.”  
“No! You’re what’s important to me, ergo you being safe is what’s good for me, because its what I want more than anything,” she said.  
His smile deepened at one corner of his mouth, and happiness lit his eyes. Then, his eyes darkened somewhat, and became soft with a realization.  
“I give you a hard time, don’t I?” Harry said. “All this time, you were trying to protect me…”  
“And came off looking and sounding like a nag, a scold, a wet rag…” Hermione said.  
“No!” Harry protested. “I’m just not used to anyone trying to protect me. The Dursleys lied to me, they wanted to break the magic out of me…I guess they thought they’d have done a good thing if I grew up to be an accountant or something, thank them for it…but, that’s not the same thing as trying to keep someone safe.”  
“Yes,” Hermione said. “But, life keeps putting danger in our path, doesn’t it? We do have to take risks. And, we do have to eat something. All right, I have essence of dittany and yarrow, a bezoar…all effective cures for most poisons. Most. We’re in the Ether, a region of unknown forms of magical life. I don’t know what the outcome of eating that fruit will be. But, I’m glad you no longer see me as…an enemy, at least.”  
“What? No, never! Hermione, I know that you’re always on my side. Sometimes, its just hard…to stop, to listen, when I want to do something so badly to make things better, to protect people. But, I know you’re not the enemy,” Harry said.  
“Good. Thank you, Harry,” Hermione said. “Look, here’s what we’ll do. We’ll both have a bit of the fruit. We’ll watch ourselves and each other for adverse effects…and if none occur, we’ll take some of the fruit with us, and move on. We still have to keep travelling. Even here, we may be recognized by other wizards.”  
Harry nodded. Hermione wiped her tears.  
“I hate being such an easy cryer,” Hermione muttered. “it just happens, when I get upset.”  
“I’ve noticed. It makes me feel rotten, when I’ve upset you, and that’s why you’re crying. I don’t know what to do,” Harry admitted.  
“Apologies help, generally, Harry, but don’t worry about it, now,” she said. She raised their wand, aimed it at a bushel of the mysterious fruit, and brought them falling down to the foot of the tree. 

‘Apologies help, generally,’ Harry thought, repeating Hermione’s words.  
He felt guilt like a swimming goldfish doing laps in his stomach, as he thought of all the times Hermione had fretted, hesitated, argued, tried to change his mind…he had been so angry with her, felt isolated and frustrated…but, it was for him. It was because she cared. Living with just her, learning to share everything with her, now he understood what it felt like to want to spare someone more strain and stress than was necessary, to nurture them and make life comfortable and pleasant for them. Hermione had long felt this concern for him, and he had ignored or gotten angry at her…  
Hermione, however, seemed perfectly calm and at ease. They stood at the sink, washing the fruit off in the colander, and then chopping it on cutting boards. They placed it in boiling water on the stove. Steam rose, carrying a pulpy, subtly sweet smell.  
“The vapors aren’t poisonous. That’s a very encouraging sign,” Hermione said.  
Harry watched her lean over the cauldron, mist kissing her face and the soft, wispy hairs at her forehead.  
“What?” she asked bemusedly, catching him staring at her.  
“Slughorn told me that my mum was one of his favorite students. He…thought I’d inherited my talent at Potions from her,” Harry said.  
“I noticed that. One day he told you something about your mother’s genes coming out in you,” Hermione said.  
“You remember everything, Hermione,” Harry marveled.  
“Is that why?” she asked.  
“Is…what, why?” Harry asked.  
“I can understand if it was hard to give up the book…because every time you had a success in Potions, Slughorn looked at you, and thought of your mother, remembered her, even brought her up and compared you to her. It would be like giving up a connection to her,” she said.  
Harry stared into the frothing water, watched it bubble and toss. He had never thought of that, before, but he thought of how he had felt every time he triumphed at Potions, which had always been a source of frustration in the past…and the little jolt of curiosity and gratification he felt whenever Slughorn talked about Lily, said she was cheeky, vivacious, had a smart-alecky mouth. He was so used to people reminiscing about James, and after what he had seen in Snape’s Pensieve he didn’t know how he felt about being compared to him…but, no one had ever talked to him about Lily. Just Petunia, and she had called her sister a freak, with vehement hatred in her voice and eyes that Harry knew she felt for him, too.  
Lily had always been a smiling image, from the Mirror of Erised or a wizard photograph. When he heard her voice in the memories of her voice stirred up by the Dementors, she was afraid, and about to die…all those moments told him about his mother was that she had feared for him, not herself, she had died for him, even though Voldemort had been willing to let her run and live another day.  
Hermione caressed his wrist, willing him to look at her.  
“What if there’s no one left, anymore, who remembers what she was like?” Harry asked.  
Hermione looked thoughtful, and nodded. She was the memory keeper, now, of her parents’ true personalities and identities, and their life as a family. She understood, at once.  
“You know that she loved you. I know that sounds…trite, and small, compared to knowing her. But, knowing that someone loves you gives you everything you need,” Hermione said. “Like, Dumbledore.”  
“What about him?” Harry asked.  
“You don’t believe anything in that poxy book of Rita Skeeter’s, not really…because you know that he loved you,” Hermione said passionately.  
Who else would dare to bring up something like that, something that had caused him so much doubt, and hurt so much?  
“I don’t know that, Hermione,” Harry murmured.  
“I do,” Hermione said. “I believe.”  
Harry felt pressure at his eyes. He didn’t want to cry…his aunt had gotten furious when he cried. The last time he hadn’t been able to help it was when he was very little, and still had nightmares about his parents, and wet the bed. His tears, his dreams of green light and his mother’s dying scream, and his ruined, golden stained sheets, they had all infuriated his aunt. She had screamed at him, he had cried more, until he had resolved never to cry again. He didn’t want to feel like a little boy who had just woken up soiled from a nightmare. He didn’t want anyone to know, to see him that way…He was so scared; Hermione was brave and free to be able to cry, the way she did. The feeling of tears coming on scared him.  
Hermione hugged him, and kissed his cheek, as she had done in their fifth year. Harry’s face felt warm. Her breasts pressed against his chest. His arms caressed her back and her waist. They stood in the kitchen, holding each other. Harry no longer felt like a helpless, scared boy. She was what he had wanted when he woke up from those nightmares, the comfort that he had instinctively known was out there, somewhere in the world, but was beyond his reach at the time. How he had waited for this comfort, but hadn’t known that he still needed.  
“I know that you love me,” he said, before he could stop himself. He was terrible at stopping himself. “I’m sorry I didn’t know it before,” he added; she had said that apologies generally help.  
“I’m not your type, that’s all!” Hermione laughed.  
“What do you mean? I haven’t got a type,” Harry said.  
“Of course you do! Long hair, nice smiles, Quidditch, not afraid to take risks, competent but not too intellectual, and…petite,” Hermione said.  
Harry laughed. “You notice everything,” he said.  
“It’s a bit pathological,” Hermione conceded, and they both laughed.  
“That was a long time ago, Hermione,” Harry said.  
She sighed. Harry didn’t know what that meant.  
“Well, shall we dine?” Hermione said.  
Harry pulled plates out of the cupboard, and they used forks to pull the boiled fruit out of the water and place them on plates. They sat down at the table.  
Hermione smiled, gathering her courage, and said, bemusedly, “Suck it and see, right?” She took the first bite. Harry felt a stitch in his stomach, the need to cry out to stop her. This must have been how she felt whenever he took a risk. But, though she had sometimes tried to change his mind, when it was made up she had never let him go in alone. She was always by his side.  
Harry took a bite, too. He had never tasted anything like it. The juice was thick and abundant, it filled his mouth, and ran down his throat. The fruit was tender and fleshy, firm but soft, and when he bit into it his mouth was filled with yet more juice and soft, spraying flesh. It was sweet, but chased by a second note of tartness, that exploded in his mouth like fireworks of taste. Eating was an absorbing, meditative experience for Harry, that caught him up in good feeling, allowed him to suspend thought for a bit.  
He looked over at Hermione-she looked like she was enjoying the fruit, too.  
“Well, we can’t argue with the taste. Hopefully it won’t make us ill,” she said.  
They put the extra, unpeeled fruit in the fridge. In the morning, Hermione planned to practice Transfiguring it into other sorts of fruits, ones they were more familiar with.  
Harry lit a fire, and he and Hermione settled onto the couch. The radio now only blared growling static, so Hermione read ‘Great Expectations’ out loud. In his mind’s eye, he couldn’t help picturing Abel Magwitch as Sirius: hunted and haggard, an outcast, but one that never let Pip down and risked life and limb to see him all grown up. He wondered if Sirius would have tried to stop him from hunting the Horcruxes. His godfather had wanted him to be informed about the war, but he knew in his heart that he would never approve of him going off on this mission.  
“Harry,” Hermione said, “are you paying attention?”  
She had known that he was lost in thought.  
“I’m fine, Hermione,” he said. “was Dickens an orphan? He writes about them a lot?”  
“Yes, well, you see, when he was 12, Dickens’ s father fell into debt, and the whole family was put into debtor’s prison. Charles Dickens was a child laborer in a factory, to pay off his family’s debt. I think he felt like an orphan, for the rest of his life,” Hermione said.  
“As long as Sirius was alive…I wasn’t one, anymore,” Harry said. She had talked about him before, Harry hoped she wouldn’t mind if he brought it up.  
“I miss him, too,” Hermione said.  
Harry looked into Hermione’s eyes. No one had said that to him, not even Dumbledore, not even Remus. He knew the Weasleys hadn’t liked his godfather too much: too edgy, too moody, told Harry too many Order of the Phoenix secrets. So he had played along at that last summer at the Burrow before sixth year, playing Quidditch and laughing at Fleur, trying to bury himself in the ‘Just Another Weasley Brother’ act. But, something about him was different than them, he knew. Harry carried pain inside like a hidden stone, and when he was around them he had to pretend that it wasn’t there, bury it even deeper.  
“He had a certain wisdom, didn’t he, when he was himself? He wasn’t very happy, at the end,” Hermione said. “Maybe that’s why I think of him when I look up at the stars. I feel like wherever he is, he’s free, now.”  
Harry smiled. He liked that idea. “He liked you a lot, you know,” Harry said.  
“I liked him, too,” Hermione said. “it was nice to have someone to ask for help. Someone who had experience, and firsthand knowledge. I know I can go overboard, but, I don’t like to be unprepared…so, I study everything I can about magic, because its still new to me. How many times did you watch “Fantasia” , or a David Copperfield special, or read about Fairy Godmothers and Wicked Witches in storybooks? Then, it turns out magic is real! We are the fairy tales. I want to know all I can.”  
“Well, its kept us alive all this time,” Harry said.  
Hermione bit her lip, hesitating, thinking. Then, meeting his eyes bravely, she said in a soft voice,  
“Who’s ‘us’ Harry?”  
“Me,” he corrected bravely. “You’ve kept me alive, Hermione," he admitted.  
She smiled.  
“Harry, I never needed you to thank me. You’re my friend,” she said. “I knew you could never stand by and watch others get hurt by Voldemort. That’s you. You have to do something, no matter how hard it is. To protect others. You don’t think of yourself enough.”  
She stood from the couch, put ‘Great Expectations’ back on the shelf, and said, “We should turn in. I want us to start moving again, in a few hours.”  
Harry was about to agree, but then Hermione gripped the bookshelf. Her steps stumbled, but she kept her footing, and gripped her stomach. Her face broke out into sweat, and she was visibly in pain.  
“Hermione!” Harry said fearfully.  
“My bag…Harry, get my bag,” she said.  
Harry ran to the bedroom they chastely shared, and grabbed her beaded velvet bag. The fruit: there had been something wrong with it, after all. He was stabbed with guilt. As usual, he had insisted, and Hermione had supportively accompanied him into a dangerous situation. Aside from that, their only food source was poisonous! He looked for the bezoar she had said she had brought…but, he couldn’t find it. Frustration and the pressure of fear shook him like the hands of a giant picking him up like a child…a helpless child.  
“Harry!” she called.  
Her cries were all that mattered, he ran to answer her, the bag in his hand. He helped Hermione back to the couch. She was shaking visibly from chills, and sweat dotted her forehead like beads of dew resting on flower petals in the morning.  
“What do I do?” Harry demanded, and looked into her eyes although the visible signs of her illness and weakness pierced him with hurt.  
“Advanced Potion Making Volume 3….antidotes…” she said, keeping her voice calm. Harry looked at her chest and stomach, and saw the struggle in her muscles. She was trying to quell her pain by taking deep, even breaths. She may be an easy cryer, but she was controlling her pain and illness and fear, trying hard to keep Harry and herself calm. Harry was in awe of her strength.  
“I can’t find the bezoar!” Harry said.  
“There are other ways,” Hermione said. “Just stay calm…yarrow…and wolf’s bane, it’s a fever suppressant…”  
“Wolf’s bane is poisonous,” Harry said.  
“All medicines are poison, all poisons can be medicine, it just depends upon the proportion. Put them in a vial, together,” Hermione said.  
Harry found the plant essences Hermione had mentioned, and put them together in the amounts she instructed him. He tried to keep going calmly even when she winced or groaned in pain, had a chill that shook her thin limbs, or even grabbed her stomach. How could he be calm when she was in pain, especially since eating the fruit was his idea? But, she needed him to be calm and do what she couldn’t do. He fought to stay calm, not to hide from his fear, but to work through it and cure her.  
When the antidote was mixed, he held it to Hermione’s mouth. Her lips touched his fingers. When some of the clear liquid trickled out of her mouth he coaxed the drops back into her mouth with his fingertip. She drank the cure from his fingers.  
Relief suffused Hermione’s face. It was like dawn was breaking beneath her skin. She was lit from within by a glow that shone from within. She was a picture of serenity as she lay back on the couch pillows. She sighed, and looked beautiful and slightly otherworldly. Was this death? Was life slipping from her? Harry felt keenly how much he needed her, and always had. She sighed, but only seemed to fall deeper into a peaceful state that was far from him…  
“Hermione, I’m sorry,” he said. “If I had listened to you…Sirius would be alive…and, I should’ve known there was something foul about the Half Blood Prince…you stuck by me during the TriWizard Tournament…and now, here, wherever we are…I should’ve seen, before…you told me there were more important things than books, and cleverness…there are more important things than what I thought was important, too…Quidditch, and pranks, and trying to be normal, trying to be a Weasley…Hermione…I want to grow old with you, too.”  
Rain was falling. The open window’s shutters started to blow in the wet rain. When a bird flew in, Harry thought, ‘Fawkes?’  
But, it was not Dumbledore’s crimson phoenix. It was a large white bird that Harry had never seen in ‘Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them’, ‘The Monster Book of Monsters’, or in Hagrid’s class. It was like a crane, but also looked rather swan-like, too. The white of its feathers was the very color of untrod upon snow, and had a silky sheen.  
He knew, somehow, as if the bird was communicating with him mentally, not to interrupt as it perched upon Hermione’s chest. Seconds passed, but they seemed like centuries passing in the span of blinks, as the bird looked into Hermione’s eyes. They fluttered open, and her drowsy gaze met the bird’s. The bird held her gaze for more seconds, more eons, and it shed one feather as it flew out the window, into the rain.  
Harry was torn between Hermione’s brown eyes, and following the bird. He was so excited that she woke up, but she nodded, telling him to follow the white bird.  
He looked out the kitchen window, and gasped at what he saw. The rain was falling in heavy silver ropes, and the scrim of aquamarine water they had glimpsed beyond the forest was encroaching. The torrential rain was gathering in a flood, and though the trees lashed in the roaring wind and rain, the earth was losing to the water, and the flood waters were coming for their little house of dreams. The white bird flew against the rain.  
“Hermione!” Harry said, rushing back to her.  
“The antidote worked…but, I think my body went into some kind of shock…the caladrius healed me,” she said.  
“The…what?” Harry said.  
“A caladrius. It’s a bird that senses sickness. If someone is about to die, the caladrius turns their head away, and can’t look into their eyes. If there is a chance they will live, then the caladrius takes the illness away with its gaze, and flies towards the sun with the sickness they have absorbed,” Hermione said. Her voice was thinner and softer than usual, but regaining its strength.  
Harry held her hand, and looked into her brown eyes.  
“Hermione, I can’t lose you. I need you. I can’t do this without you,” Harry said.  
“I heard everything you said,” Hermione said.  
“Its all true,” Harry said.  
“We’ll talk about it later. Help me up,” Hermione said.  
Harry hurriedly grabbed macintoshes out of the closet, and they tugged on Wellington boots. Harry put his arm around Hermione when he noticed she needed steadying, and together they headed out to find a way to save their house from the flood.


	4. Chapter 4

“I think these wheels have served us as far as they can!” Hermione shouted over the rain.  
“Yeah, we can’t drive in this, we’ll just get stuck, and we don’t even properly know where we are!” Harry answered.  
“We’ll have to sail!” Hermione said.  
“But, we don’t have any food! Just that poison fruit!” Harry said.   
He felt fine, so far, but the fruit had almost killed Hermione. The only reason he wasn’t still shaking inside from the sight of her shivering, pale, feverish, and almost unconscious was that they were both throwing themselves into the task of figuring out what to do, and where to go. That was staving off the thoughts of Ron, Sirius, Mad-Eye Moody, Dumbledore and the fallen Ministry, their conquered world, too.  
“No! The fruit is safe, now! Harry, caladrius feathers neutralize poison! There’s some sort of force at work, here in the Ether. Its pushing us, challenging us, but also giving us the things we need to go on,” Hermione said.  
Harry nodded. He had to take her word for it, but that felt right, to him. He felt closer to Hermione than ever, he felt clear of purpose when it came to her: he would protect her, listen to her, care for her. He could spare no thoughts of what came before. She was at the heart of his present, and only the present could be tended to.  
Hermione took her wand from Harry’s back pocket, and waved it at their cottage. The wheels were gone, and it became a boat. She and Harry boarded, him following her, and she performed another Transfiguration on the cockpit, and the wheel like a bus’s was replaced by the wooden wheel of a boat.  
It was good to be dry. Harry stripped off his mac and shut the door behind them.   
“What do we do, now?” Harry asked.  
“We wait,” Hermione asked. “It will be soon, I think. When the moment comes, I need you to steer.”  
“Are you still a little faint?” he asked.  
She reluctantly nodded.  
“Hermione, I’m sorry I pressed the issue about the fruit,” Harry said.  
“Your curiosity. And the way you don’t doubt yourself in the heat of the moment, when you pursue it. That’s what makes you a better wizard than me, Harry. I don’t regret a moment I’ve spent following your instinct,” Hermione said. “I’m sorry I get in your way, sometimes, by hesitating.”  
“Hermione, I’m not a better wizard than you! I’m not. And the risks I take hurt people. I see that, now,” Harry said.   
“I went into this willingly. You have nothing to feel guilty for. Is this about Ron? Sirius? Dumbledore?” Hermione asked.  
“I don’t know! All of them! Everything! The world is like this because of me…because Voldemort’s trying to kill me, and he’s willing to destroy everything we know and anyone who gets in his way to do it,” Harry said.  
“No!” Hermione said fiercely. “No, Harry! Voldemort wants power. He thrives on it, he lusts for it, and he’d destroy anyone and anything to get it. He’s trying to break the world that didn’t allow him to take the things he wanted, and create a new one where all authority and benefit goes to him, and no one else. He wants to break us. He hates those who can’t be broken. Don’t let him break you, Harry.”  
Harry looked into her eyes, and couldn’t look away. For the first time in a long time, his guilt abated, like clouds parting and letting the sun shine on the wreckage of a storm.  
He couldn’t help it, he kissed her. His hands rested on her waist, and his arms gathered her into his arms. He expected a slap or the kind of punch that she had dealt to Malfoy, but to his surprise, Hermione kissed him back fiercely. He thrilled when he felt her tongue in his mouth. Sharp, electric sensations travelled up and down his spine. He wanted to cry out, he wanted to shed tears. This was better than chocolate, better than Quidditch victory, the safest place he had ever rested, and yet, there was danger in this, too. Kissing Hermione made him feel so keenly alive, aware, and himself, there was no room to disappear.  
“Harry,” she breathed into his ear, when they pulled apart, and his head rested on her shoulder as he held tightly to her and caught his breath. “Its coming…we have only seconds…”  
He had no idea what she was talking about. Dazed by his new joy and freedom, he kissed her neck, softly sucking the tender flesh that felt like sunwarmed fruit skin. Hermione sighed, but put her hand to his shoulder and gently pushed him away.  
“The boat, Harry. I need you to steer it,” she reminded him. Harry reluctantly left Hermione’s small, soft body behind and got into the driver’s chair. He gripped the wheel.   
His eyes widened at what he saw and heard. Like fiendish whips, the cracks of trees falling before wind and water, and the trees toppled like giants falling in battle. The wave was headed for them, a demonic chariot of furious, frothing, white water in a pummeling wave.  
“Now!” Hermione cried. Harry began to steer, and they heard the furniture slide and crash behind them as the boat crested on the water.   
“Hermione, are you all right?” Harry asked.  
Still weak from her illness, she struggled to her feet, and said, “Just steer. I’m going to place Sticking Charms on the furniture. Steer!”  
Harry obeyed, and did his best to guide their boat. He exhaled deeply in relief when they reached open water, although he didn’t know where they were sailing to. Had they ever even been to Hogwarts? Had they ever been children, once? They were the only two people in the world, and always had been. The past mattered less than ever as they sailed upon the rain battered, wave tossed surface of a vast body of water meeting the horizon in dark blue ocean layered against dark gray sky. 


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry and Hermione face a new challenge, Sirens, and the effect they have on Harry brings up some awkward truths

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning: Harry's feelings about, and relationship with Ginny is discussed, and she appears as a mirage. The scene is in no way meant to endorse Hinny or Ginny. It's about Harry figuring out his feelings. Enjoy!

“Sirens,” Hermione said softly, inclining a listening ear to the window.  
Beyond the windows’ glass, the water glistened a dazzling cerulean blue spangled with sunlight. The sky was clear, the rain had ended, and the keen smell of salt wafted in from the open kitchen window, as did the eerily soothing music. It sounded just short of holy, like a Christmas choir, but the voices didn’t pronounce any words Harry knew, but notes that gathered, coalesced, and rose like plumes of smoke joining as they evanesced.  
“Like, merpeople?” Harry asked.  
“No. Sirens are amphibious. They can live off the land, to a certain extent…and they’re called different names on land: Rusalkas, Willis, Veelas. But they all have the same traits: preternaturally beautiful, with a powerfully magical allure, and an affinity with mist and water,” Hermione said.  
Harry considered this. The boat was capable of steering itself, which gave them both time to recover. Hermione was still weak and a bit shaky, which struck Harry with a tender kind of fear he could only shake off by following her example. Hermione’s fortitude, calm, and efficiency did not lag, no matter how poorly she felt. As soon as the storm was passed, she set to work touching each of the fruit with the caladrius feather, and then transfiguring them into familiar foods. Their fridge and cupboards were now stocked for a journey that, in unquiet moments, Harry feared would be a long one. How long had they been gone? What was time, anymore.  
When they weren’t doing Transfiguration, they fortified the windows with Charms to repel water from getting in the boat, and Sticking charms on anything that might fly about in rough water. When that was done, they read. Harry had never really been much of a reader, so he found there were many books he had heard of, knew a vague summary of the plot, but had never encountered or touched. Then there were those he had never heard of, whose titles seemed like secret codes: Never Let Me Go, The Heart is a Lonely Hunter, To Kill a Mockingbird. Hermione, of course, seemed well acquainted with them, the way she knew so many things he didn’t.  
She wasn’t reading, however. She had picked up the wand they now shared, and cast, “Vincula.” A long length of rope appeared on the coffee table.  
“What’s that for?” Harry asked. He vaguely knew of a correlation between ropes and sailing, so figured it had something to do with the boat.  
Matter of factly, Hermione said, “I’m going to have to tie you up, Harry. Probably to the bed. That would probably be the most comfortable place.”  
Harry was dumbfounded. They had kissed twice…they seemed to be skipping some vital steps.  
He opened his mouth in silent interrogation, and Hermione said,  
“I’m sorry, Harry, but the longer you hear the Siren music, the likelier it is that you’ll feel a compulsion to go to them. Its what they do: they lure men to them with their music, and then they drown them. Its in the Odyssey, even, and that’s what Odysseus had to do: tie himself and his sailors up, and put wax in their ears, so they could neither hear nor act on the compulsion in the Siren music,” Hermione said.  
“But, I don’t feel any compulsion. I mean, we’ve been hearing the music all morning, and I’m fine!” Harry said.  
“It will grow stronger, and your resistance will grow weaker, Harry! Its their nature! Why do you think men act like idiots around Fleur? She can’t help it, nor can they. Non-human creatures have different magic than wizards, and Siren magic entraps people with compulsion,” Hermione said.  
“Hermione, listen to me. I don’t act like an idiot around Fleur. I think that’s why she likes me-its definitely not my urbane wit. And at the World Cup, when the Veela came out, I felt like I wanted to jump out of my chair or something for a minute, then I fought it off,” Harry said. “and when Moody…I mean, Crouch cast the Imperius Curse on me in class, I fought it off, too. Compulsion stuff doesn’t work on me!”  
Hermione was holding the rope-which was a little threatening-but she was biting her lip, and her dark brows, darker than her hair which was streaked with sandy strands, were furrowed in a thoughtful frown.  
“You’re right…I did notice that…maybe there’s something repellant about you, Harry,” she said.  
“Oh, thanks. I mean, I know I could use a haircut and a shave…” he quipped.  
Hermione frowned at him, and said, “No! I mean your magic. Think about it…you resisted the Killing Curse when you were just a baby…and you resisted the Imperius Curse and Veela compulsion…in dangerous situations, I’ve noticed that you tend to disarm your opponent rather than a defensive spell.”  
“Well, sure. Why kill if you don’t have to? Or hurt anyone if you don’t have to?” Harry said.  
“Which speaks to your inherently compassionate nature, yes, but, Harry….as we see, magic runs much deeper than our teachers are willing or able to teach us at Hogwarts. There are hints and allusions that I’ve encountered in books that I’ve chased through yet more books, for hours, days, weeks, pursuing an explanation…and it all seems to lead off into an arcane territory that a textbook can’t breach. Our professors are very learned wizards, I’m sure they know more,” Hermione said.  
“I don’t know, Hermione. At least one of our professors turns out to be a psychopath, every year. I’m losing my faith in the institution,” Harry said.  
“Psychopathy has no bearing on anyone’s professional credentials,” Hermione said. “What I mean is, Hogwarts can’t teach us everything. Its not meant to. We’re meant to learn foundational, practical skills, then seek other avenues of knowledge. There is a lot of magic out there. Its old, its wild, its rough, and then there are some things that are…mysterious.”  
“Right. The Department of Mysteries, they study all that. I mean, I guess they did until we wrecked their office,” Harry said.  
At that, Hermione gave a sad smirk. He felt the victory of making her smile.  
“You’re one of those mysteries, Harry. No one knows why you survived the Killing Curse when you were a baby, and this resistance you feel to compulsion, and your instinct to disarm rather than strike…maybe it has something to do with the texture and quality of your magic,” Hermione said.  
“You sound like Aunt Petunia after her and Vernon went to a wine tasting,” Harry said.  
“Well, magic is a bit like wine, isn’t it? Everyone’s magic has a different flavor and body. We all have different strengths. Your mother, she excelled at Potions. Your father, clearly his affinity was Transfiguration-he became an Animagi at 16!” Hermione said.  
It had been a while since he had felt anything but ambivalence about James, but he felt warmed when Hermione sounded so impressed at his father’s achievement. And anyway, certainly James’s dislike of Snape had proven to be warranted: the man had grown up to murder Dumbledore. Harry wished he didn’t still feel sorry for the dirty, lonely, angry, harassed child he had seen in the Pensieve, or recall the Half-Blood Prince he had spent most of the school year taking direction from with a sort of fondness.  
“And you, you’re good at everything,” Harry said.  
“Well, yes, but I feel most comfortable doing research, more than anything. So, my affinity is more scholarly. What I mean is, magic is like instinct, but deeper than that…something in you responds to something outside which is calling you. I don’t know why it is you can resist magical attack the way you do, but Harry, its remarkable,” Hermione said.  
“So, you’re not going to tie me up?” Harry asked.  
“No, I’m afraid I’ll have to! Harry, look at this place! It may very well be the source of all magic. Or, it was created to entrap and stall whoever ends up here…I have thought of that. The fruit could have killed us, if not for the caladrius. The flood could have killed us, too,” Hermione said.  
“Great: leaving Hogwarts had no bearing on the pattern of something trying to do us in, every year,” Harry said.  
“Well, be that as it may, we have to face these challenges head on until we can return to…where we came from. And the Sirens are another challenge. This realm is potently magical. Just because you can eat dinner with Fleur without your jaw hanging down to your plate doesn’t mean that you can resist a Siren in their domain, the water, in a realm full of magic like this,” Hermione said.  
Harry was angry, but he understood what she meant. This place felt like no place he had ever been, but reminded him, if anything, of the Forbidden Forest, and Voldemort’s cave. It felt throbbing and pulsating with magic, the feeling of holding a wand magnified to a dramatic pitch. It made him want to hold Hermione close, and protect her from something, but he knew not what. It was not threats that lurked in the corners of the Ether, it was just the fact that they were tame creatures in an uncanny wilderness, and he didn’t know what to do.  
Harry sighed heavily. “Fine, yeah, go for it. If you think you have to,” he said.  
She smiled gratefully, and said, “Its better than the alternative.”  
They walked, nervously, to the bedroom. The fact that some people did this for quite a reason apart from resisting Sirens hung awkwardly in the air. Harry felt like he should make a joke…but nothing came to mind. He lay on the bed, and Hermione began to string the rope through its posts. As she moved, he listened to the hissing sound of the rope against the wood, and looked at the curve of her jaw, leading to her appealingly pointed chin, looked at the light in her brown and sandy hair, smelled her skin, which smelled of sea air, the mist of boiled fruit, and soap. Her brown eyes met his and then darted away, several times, until they lingered.  
The ocean glittered, the sirens sang, and Hermione paused, locked on each other’s eyes. Something flared, like lightning painted against a distant corner of the sky, but rather than flaring and disappearing, this lance of fire lingered, daring one of them to turn away from the heat.  
Hermione broke their gaze.  
“Should we talk about the weather?” she murmured bemusedly, looking out the window.  
“Rather wet out,” Harry said, feeling annoyed, wanting her eyes back. He needed her to look at him, felt niggling suspense that she had looked away.  
Hermione laughed, and her eyes met his once again. He loved it when she laughed. She looked so young, sweet, and he felt so affectionate towards her, when she laughed. Not that he didn’t have other species of affection for when she was bossy, when she was expounding a little known fact, when she was standing up to a bully, when she was reading or studying. They were all Hermione, and he couldn’t clearly remember life before her. It even felt like she had knit herself into his earliest childhood memories. He didn’t have to tell her about the darkness of the cupboard, or what it was like to have no friends at his school because everyone was too afraid of Dudley to talk to him…it was as if she had always been there.  
“I think I want to kiss you,” she admitted.  
“Now that you’ve got me tied up?” Harry said.  
“No!” Hermione said. “I just don’t think it’s a good idea if we kiss anymore. I’m sure we wouldn’t have if…”  
“If Ron was here?” he said. “You said you fancy him.”  
“I did. I mean, I always did before…” she said. She sighed. “We can’t let this place change us, Harry! I don’t think this is a place that wizards are meant to stay in. It isn’t done with us, but it has no plans to keep us. We have to hold on to what’s essential about ourselves.”  
“I can do that. I have you,” Harry said.  
“No! Harry, you can’t do it that way! Do you want to be like Sirius? How do you think Tonks ended up with Professor Lupin?” Hermione said.  
He was perplexed. He really didn’t have an answer to that one.  
“Come again?” Harry said.  
Hermione sighed. “Remember what you said, about Tonks being in love with Sirius?”  
“Yeah, but I was wrong. It was Lupin,” he said.  
“I overheard Mrs. Weasley and Ginny talking it all over. Tonks and Sirius, they…well, they had become close. But, he put her off. Mrs. Weasley reckons Sirius only had enough of himself left to give to you. You were the last part of his life before, the last living vestige of his best friends who were like family to him, and being asked to be your godfather was the last time someone had trusted him unequivocally with a matter of importance. Building new bonds with people…that wasn’t really his thing, was it?” Hermione said.  
“That’s not true! He loved you, and Ron, too,” Harry said.  
“Because we’re your friends, Harry. But building an intimate, deep relationship with Tonks was too much for him, and he threw her off. She was heartbroken, especially after he died protecting her from Bellatrix,” Hermione said. “I think her and Professor Lupin became close because he was sympathetic, and they were grieving together.”  
“So, Sirius did care about her, too, Hermione. That’s proof: he died for her,” Harry said.  
He knew he would have done the same for Hermione. He admired his godfather all the more, knowing he had dueled Voldemort’s most loyal Death Eater to the death, to save the woman he loved.  
“Yes, but he didn’t have the will to live for her, or share life with her. You were his raison d’etre. You kept him sane enough to know who he was. Otherwise, he had lost himself, and he knew it,” Hermione said. “He loved you, Harry…but, he couldn’t sit with himself, and get to know himself again, and live with what had happened in the past and put it aside. I don’t want you to house so much of your will to live in me. You have to hold onto yourself for your own sake.”  
“I wouldn’t give you up. I guess Sirius reckoned Tonks would be better off, but…I wouldn’t give you up, Hermione,” Harry said.  
“Don’t give yourself up, Harry. That’s the purpose of this, after all,” she said, meaning the ropes. “Don’t you hear? The music is getting louder,” Hermione said.  
She was right. The music contained more voices, their notes were harsher, and they were becoming almost frantic.  
Hermione tightened the ropes. Harry thought of the spell Dumbledore had used to paralyze him when Snape and Malfoy entered the Astronomy Tower.  
“Severus, Please,” Dumbledore had said, in a soft, pleading voice Harry had never heard before. He felt the same distress that he did then, but he couldn’t move, and he hated it, he struggled, feeling the air lodge in his chest, he couldn’t breathe.  
“Harry, what is it? Harry, tell me, let me help you,” Hermione said.  
He couldn’t talk, he didn’t want to talk, he had to do something, he couldn’t move… he closed his eyes.  
When he opened them, he wasn’t in the boat, but nor was he in the Astronomy Tower on the night that Dumbledore died. The water that glittered before him wasn’t cerulean blue, but smoldering gray. It was the lake, at Hogwarts. The castle lay reflected on the dark gray, sun dappled water, and Harry’s heart thrilled as he turned around and saw the castle behind him.  
“Its Hogwarts!” he said.  
“Well, its not Disney Land,” said a familiar voice, deceptively soft like a flame is silken until it burns, sweet but piercing with sarcasm.  
He looked at the girl by his side. She wasn’t tall enough to give him a piercing gaze, her eyes were light brown with an amber luster, not dark and starry, and her hair was not a wild, curly mass of vines all shades of brown, but a long, waving flag of fiery red.  
“Ginny?” Harry said.  
“Who were you expecting?” she said, with her challenging smirk.  
A flood of feelings rushed back to him…the heady feeling when she was close, the annoyance when she had turned him down to meet Dean when he asked to find a train compartment with her, the way he had watched her body move with unabashed passion as she kissed Dean, and the savage longing that it should be him, Harry, that she was kissing instead. She had been so beautiful that summer, cradling her broom between her toned thighs, sunshine dappling her arms and her tantalizingly waving red hair as they played Quidditch in the orchard. He had dreamed of Ginny, on her broom, framed in sunlight, green leaves, and blushing, ripe apples, Ginny’s legs hugging the smooth wood, her hair teasing him to catch her, to touch the fire….  
“Well?” she asked.  
Harry was tongue-tied, overwhelmed by her soft skin and fiery hair…  
Her smirk was victorious. “Of course you don’t want anyone else…you’ve never wanted anyone like this, have you? I see you watching me, Harry. I know how you feel when we kiss. Come with me, Harry,” she said.  
“Where?” he asked.  
She smirked, and her red hair tumbled, each strand exploding with sunlight, as she reached down, to her shoes. She removed her shoes…pulled her knee socks off, revealing the fair, silken skin of her legs.  
“Come to the water, Harry. Get in the water with me,” she said, and quirked her finger, calling him, as she walked into the gray waters of the lake. “you don’t have to fight any Dark Lords when you’re with me. You don’t have to talk, you don’t have to think. Isn’t it like being someone else? Someone normal, someone people like, someone who only has to think about Quidditch and having a good time. Just like your dad. Doesn’t he look like you, but happy? You’ve never been that happy. That normal. Don’t we look just like your parents? And we could be that happy…”  
The water embraced her form. Her white school shirt was as thin as foam around her small body. Harry began to walk towards the water. Ginny was right…the way people whispered and gossiped about their relationship in the halls, the way they laughed about nothing and kissed more than they talked…it was what school should be, what life should be…they looked like his parents…he wanted to dance with Ginny and twirl her round and round in the autumn leaves, like the picture of his mum and dad…they would be so happy.  
“Harry! Wake up!” Hermione said.  
Her voice rang across the gray sky like a song of thunder. He looked around for her, but she was nowhere, she was everywhere, in the sky, beyond the mountains, touching the waters of the lake like wind, and calling from his blood..  



	6. Chapter 6

He woke, gasping for air, struggling against the ropes. He looked around…the reality of the white walls of the bedroom, the blue sky and blue water outside the window, the Siren song, it all reasserted itself…  
Hermione! She was there, she was real, her messy vines of brown and sandy hair, her dark eyes, her dark eyebrows regarding him with a frown, and her fruit and sea salt smell. Her voice had coalesced into the image and reality of her. Harry treasured the feeling of her thigh against his, as she sat on the space on the bed beside him.   
“Hermione…” Harry said.  
“Its true, then. No man can resist Sirens. And they play on what you desire most,” Hermione said.  
“We have to get out of the Sirens’ territory,” Harry said, and was surprised by how ragged his voice sounded, how dizzy he felt.  
“The boat can steer itself, I don’t want to leave you like this. When we’re emotionally charged, we can do involuntary, wandless magic. You might try to free yourself,” Hermione said.  
Harry nodded. He saw now that he was not immune to the Sirens.  
“You said things, when you were under the compulsion. I take it you saw Ginny?” Hermione said.  
“Sort of. I mean, I saw…myself. I saw how I feel about Ginny. And, it wasn’t fair,” Harry said. “this summer…I didn’t want to think about Sirius, or the Prophecy. When I was playing Quidditch, I didn’t think.”  
“And you and Ginny connected about Quidditch,” Hermione said.  
“Yeah. And…she’s grown up. She’s…you know…how she is, now,” Harry said.  
“Hot?” Hermione offered.  
Harry blushed, and looked away.   
“When I saw her kissing Dean…I wanted to be someone like him. A normal guy, who could play Quidditch and kiss a girl that everyone else wanted to kiss…someone who had nothing to worry about…” Harry said, and spoke to the blue cotton of his pillowcase, rather than meeting Hermione’s eyes.  
His face burned and his stomach felt full of squirming shame. He couldn’t face her, but he saw the frown between her dark brown brows.   
“Its not fair. I’m glad that you know that its not fair to see someone that way. As the conduit to the realization of a fantasy you have for how you’d like your life to be,” Hermione said.  
“I know,” Harry groaned.  
“But…I suppose you both went into things with your illusions. She wanted the heroic boy from tall tales, bad poems and ballad sheets and grandiose rumors, and, to some extent, the boy who saved her from the Chamber of Secrets. And, you wanted a…” she paused, and took on a face of utter distaste, “a Quidditch Chick.”  
Harry had certainly heard the phrase around the boy’s dorm, and the insinuations about girls who rode hard, long, wooden broomsticks and looked good doing it, but hearing the phrase uttered so primly by Hermione was surreal, and at any other time, laughable.  
“I didn’t see Ginny as a Quidditch Chick. Or, at least, I didn’t mean to. I guess…I mean…I don’t know, Hermione! I wanted to be happy! Thinking about her was the opposite of thinking about Sirius, Voldemort, the Prophecy, my dad and Snape, all of it. Nothing feels good anymore. There was nothing good in my life, anymore,” Harry said.  
“Oh! Well, thank you very much! I had no idea I was the most unsatisfactory and lackluster best friend in history!” Hermione said, stung.  
“You preferred Ron, you said so!” he said.  
“So did you! And don’t tell me any different! I was the bothersome, nagging, boring girl, he was your ‘mate’,” Hermione said.  
“Yeah, good ol’ Ron. Still by my side through thick and thin, just like during the Triwizard Tournament,” Harry said, with savage sarcasm. Harry turned to the empty space by his bed, pretending to address an invisible Ron, and said, “I can always count on you, mate! Always there when I need you.”  
“Well, I am here, for all you care!” Hermione said tearfully. “I’m always here…even when you don’t notice, don’t think you need me, don’t agree with me, or at least won’t admit that I’m right. You only listen to yourself, Harry! You only counsel yourself, you only take your own advice. Ron and Ginny are willing to be whatever you say you need, agree with whatever you think is right, and they’re so funny and exciting…you freeze me out when I see something you don’t and dare to say it!”   
Hermione collapsed into tears, crying into her hands. It made Harry feel guilty, and frantic to make it stop, which translated to his heated nerves and blood-flooded mind as annoyance at her.   
“Don’t you think I know that?! Don’t you think I know that if we’d been able to figure out that Snape was the Half-Blood Prince, and show Dumbledore that bloody book, he would have stopped trusting Snape before Snape murdered him? That if I’d listened to you instead of Ginny, that night when we ran off to the Department of Mysteries…Sirius…” Harry said.  
“Harry, no! That’s not what I mean. That’s not what I want. I don’t want you to blame yourself, or Ron, or Ginny…” Hermione said.  
“She told me that I wasn’t possessed by him…I felt so sick, and ashamed, and…bad…like I was the one who had attacked Mr. Weasley…and she told me that the one thing I feared the most wasn’t true. But it is, Hermione. I’m a Horcrux…he is inside of me…” Harry said.  
“Harry-Ginny couldn’t have known that. None of us could have known how much we didn’t know, even Dumbledore. I’m sorry I said all of that. Just forget it. We’ve both said and done so many things that aren’t really us, since we came here,” Hermione said.  
“I don’t think so. I think here, its like…being in a boiling pot, being cooked, and as we are, some kind of shell is falling off…this is what we feel, this is who we are,” Harry said. “Hermione, I’m sorry for all the times I didn’t see you, and didn’t listen to you. I’d be dead without you.”  
“That’s an exaggeration,” She said, with a rueful laugh.  
“No, it isn’t,” Harry said.  
“Harry…” she sighed. “We both overlooked each other. Ron, Ginny, all the Weasleys, they helped us to adapt to life in the Wizarding World. Maybe if we had only had each other, we would have been the blind leading the blind. So, we turned to them, instead of each other. But I know you care for me.”  
“I do,” Harry said. “Why didn’t I see you, Hermione?”  
“I don’t know, Harry. You tell me. Honestly, ask yourself,” she said, and her brown eyes had a sad softness. He guiltily found it beautiful. Any time her eyes were turned on him was beautiful to him.  
“I…knew you wouldn’t leave me. I knew you wanted to protect me, and help me. But, I…I just hate being told what to do. My Aunt Petunia…I had to cook, to clean, all she ever did was order me around. If I was sick, or had a nightmare…I learned pretty early on that she wouldn’t help me with those things. I just had to do what I was told,” Harry said.  
“Why? Why would she treat a child, her own nephew that way?!” Hermione said indignantly.  
“She hated that my mother was a witch. She was ashamed of her,” Harry said.   
“Harry…that’s awful. I never meant to order you around. I only want to help you,” Hermione said.  
“I know, I know. I’m not saying you remind me of Aunt Petunia. I just mean…whenever someone tells me what to do, I hate it,” Harry said. “I turn away, or I fight back.”  
Hermione nodded, taking all of this in.   
“Its all about what people mean behind it, Harry. If someone is being imperious, superior, abusive, or if they are in a position of authority that requires that others obey them, or if they just have your best interests at heart and have seen something that you haven’t, and are trying to keep you out of trouble, keep you from suffering,” Hermione said. “They look like the same thing, but they couldn’t be more different.”  
“I understand that now,” Harry said. He sighed. “Dumbledore told me not to argue with him, to do whatever he told me to do, no matter how difficult it was. And…I did. When he told me to hide, I did,” Harry said, as hard as that was to admit. “And if I hadn’t, Snape would have killed me, too. He saved me. Just like you. You’ve saved me so many times, or tried to, and I didn’t realize…I was just angry…not angry at you, angry at…”  
“The world?” Hermione said. “I know. Who wouldn’t be, in your position? But, Harry, you love the world too much to have the kind of permanent grudge against it that people like Voldemort and his Death Eaters have. You’re angry at this burden you face, and angry at the abuses you’ve faced from people in your past. I see those scars, Harry. But, I know that beneath them, your heart is the same as ever. You have a great heart, Harry.”  
“I don’t know if that’s true,” Harry said.  
“Well, I know it!” Hermione said.  
“It’s a good thing you know everything, then,” Harry said, smiling, feeling the air between them settle.  
Hermione smiled too. “I think talking helps you resist the compulsion,” she said. “As long as we keep focusing on each other and engaging with each other, I think the Sirens’ power is weaker.”  
“So, you can untie me?” Harry asked.  
Hermione frowned deliberatingly.  
“Fine,” she said, and began to untie his wrists.   
They felt itchy and sore, but liberated, as the ropes were loosed. Harry flexed his wrists, getting used to mobility once again. He stretched his shoulders, sighing in pleasure as tension fled his shoulders in satisfying cracks of settling muscle and sinew.  
Hermione took his hand, and looked into his eyes. With the tip of her index finger, she traced the words, “I must not tell lies.” Her touch felt electric but gentle, in the grooves of the hateful words on his skin.   
“It was a long time ago, Hermione,” he assured her.  
“No, it wasn’t,” she said. “I wish I could have stopped her.”  
“Hermione, you did. In grand fashion. I’m sure the old bitch still isn’t right in the head,” Harry said.  
“Harry! Language!” she reprimanded, then added, “Sorry, was that too much like your Aunt Petunia?”  
“No! I told you, I didn’t mean that you reminded me of her, just that-,” Harry spluttered.  
“Harry, its fine! I’m joking,” Hermione said.  
“Don’t do that again. It’s very un-Hermione,” he said.  
“Well, its not as if I can go to the library,” she said.   
“We’ve got a great library, thank you very much,” Harry said proudly.  
“Yes…our house is a very, very, very fine house,” Hermione said.  
“Yeah, well, I think so,” Harry said.  
“I’ll go get Great Expectations. We can finish it up. I just wonder where the boat is taking us. Where the Ether is taking us, rather,” Hermione said. She stood, and walked towards the door.  
“Hermione,” Harry called.  
She hesitated at the door.   
He didn’t know how to say just what he wanted to say: ‘Thank you? I care for you? I’ll never leave you? I know you’ll never leave me? I was so wrong before, so scared, so distracted, running from myself and my old fears?’   
He almost wished he had Ron’s book about charming witches…but, he didn’t want to placate Hermione, woo or seduce her. He wanted her to know that he saw her now. He wanted her to know he knew that this was a new era in their lives, that needed them to fully understand themselves and fully rely on, trust, and see each other.   
In her smile, and the light in her eyes before she turned away, he knew that she knew.   



	7. Chapter 7

The sea sighed salt and light. The water outside the open windows of their floating house was cerulean, lapping in waves now so regular and calm it was hard to believe the flood they had fled from had ever happened. Harry and Hermione were curled up on the same couch, under a throw blanket, even though the ocean air was comfortably chilly, not too cold. Hermione was reading from the last few pages of ‘Great Expectations.’ Harry didn’t want the book to be over. Hermione’s voice poured forth and soothed him as she read, like standing under a waterfall, or taking a hot shower after Quidditch practice.  
“ ‘I took her hand in mine, and we went out of the ruined place; and as the morning mists had risen long ago when I first left the forge, so the evening mists were rising now, and in all the broad expanse of tranquil light they showed to me, I saw no shadow of another parting from her,’” Hermione read.  
The spell of the lovely words was broken by the sound of Hermione shutting the book. That was it. It was finished. And, in the finality of that, he realized that he heard only the wheeling, lapping water. There was no Siren song. Only Hermione’s voice, and it had finished the story.  
“What did you think?” Hermione asked.  
Harry took a moment to gather his impressions of the novel. There were certain things about it that had felt hauntingly familiar, like secret signals from a boy next door, whose bedroom window faced his, or if the reflection in his mirror could speak. Things he’d nearly wept about, things he had been afraid of, things he had lost, things he had wished for.  
“I liked it. The end was beautiful. I rather like Estella. I’m glad she and Pip went off together,” Harry said.  
“Well, they almost didn’t. Dickens had written quite another ending, a more ambivalent one. His friend, a novelist called Edward Bulwer Lytton, suggested that he give the two of them a happy ending,” Hermione said.  
“What? He had to be convinced? Was he generally a sad old bugger?” Harry asked.  
Hermione’s eyes lit with mirth, and she burst into laughter. Her hair shook, her mouth was open wide, she was free and happy, framed by a sunlit sea that was such a perfect blue. Harry’s heart swelled as if he was flying.  
“No, he was…you know, the consummate Victorian. With a secret life, of course, but…well, I suppose men do that sort of thing, don’t they?” Hermione said.  
“Not all men are arseholes who lie and keep secrets,” Harry said.  
“I know,” she said, smiling, her chocolate eyes locked on his. “Its hard to say what kind of man Charles Dickens was. A complicated man, I suppose. My parents love his work. And Shakespeare, and Jane Austen, and the Brontes. We were supposed to take a trip to the Haworth Parsonage, where the Brontes lived.”  
“You will, Hermione,” Harry said. “When we get home, when all of this is over.”  
She squeezed his hand, and said, “Thank you, Harry. Can I tell you something?”  
“ ‘Course,” Harry said.  
“You always reminded me of Pip. Or, Pip reminded me of you. I can’t remember anymore, if I read this book for the first time before I’d met you, or after. Every time I read it, I see Pip as a little boy with green eyes, and skinny elbows,” Hermione said. “Just like you, in first year.”  
Harry laughed. “I was a prat to you in first year,” he said.  
“I think I might have been a bit…insufferable,” she said.  
They both laughed. “You were confident. And more mature than the rest of us, and prepared. We just couldn’t handle that.”  
“Its all water under the bridge, now,” Hermione said, then sighed, “ ‘Water, water, everywhere, but not a drop to drink.’”  
“Are you thirsty?” Harry asked.  
“No, its from a poem,” she said.  
Harry was in awe of how much she knew, not just about magic, but also about literature, a world even more mysterious to him.  
“I can’t believe you see me as Pip,” Harry said, in awe.  
“I shouldn’t have told you, I’m so embarrassed, now,” she said.  
“No, don’t be,” He said. “I mean, I’m not as feckless with money as him…but, I like how he stayed with Magwitch until the end. He was a better person, after that.”  
“Sometimes, the people who love us are flawed, but as long as we love them, they’re not hopeless. Pip had a lot of love to give,” Hermione said.  
“So did Estella. She was just mixed up, thinking that she couldn’t love, because that’s what she was taught. She always loved Pip. She always protected him, and told him what was on her mind. She was honest, you know? That’s how you know someone cares,” Harry said.  
Hermione was smiling resplendently as Harry went on. He felt like he had said too much.  
“I’m glad you liked it so much,” Hermione said. “But, how long can we do this, Harry? Let the Ether take us while we read books that are a hundred years old?”  
“Hermione, we don’t know anything about this place. We’re doing the best we can. Just making it through every day without going mad is an accomplishment,” Harry said.  
“You’re right, I know, but, Harry…what if its like an old fairy tale, where people are taken underground to the realm of the Tuatha De Danaan. and when they return its been a hundred years?” Hermione said.  
“The Two-of-The what?” Harry repeated.  
“The Tuatha De Danaan. It means Race of Gods,” Hermione said. “In Celtic lore, they were supernatural beings with powerful magic, who lived forever, in their underground realm. When humans disappeared there, time moved differently. Minutes could be decades, an afternoon could be a century, and if they ever returned, it was to a world that had been changed. What if those legends were a garbled version of a truth that had been forgotten in detail, or a deliberate subterfuge? What if the Ether is the realm from all those tales of the lost and returned?”  
“Hermione, we can’t worry about that until we see evidence of it, all right? We have food, water, we’re warm, we have books, and each other. We can make that work, until we can make it back. And when we do…” Harry said.  
“Voldemort,” Hermione said.  
Harry nodded, gravely. He looked at the coffee table. He wasn’t Pip. He couldn’t walk away from the ruined place with the girl he loved, all forgiven that was held bitterly in their hearts, all revealed that was cradled secretly in their souls. These were, if he had guessed right, his last days. If he did manage to survive after killing Voldemort, what would he be? It wasn’t the world he feared-he’d gone from adored with an impersonally fervent prying curiosity to viciously hated, avoided, and mocked, before, and had got used to it the way people who lived in the path of hurricanes got used to boiling storms spilling over on their island and coast homes. They evacuated, or hunkered down, waited it out, and then walked through the wreckage looking for whatever beloved thing was left behind.  
But, if Hermione thought he was a murderer, a monster. That made him sweat with fear. He couldn’t lose her.  
“Harry…what are you thinking? Its all right, if you’re afraid…of what comes next. You can talk to me,” Hermione said.  
“No, I’m fine,” he said. “What do you want to read next?”  
“Wuthering Heights,” she said, but she was trying her best to pierce him with her gaze. He avoided her eyes.  
Hermione pulled the book from the shelf, and read, “ “I have just returned from a visit to my landlord-the solitary neighbor that I shall be troubled with. This is certainly a beautiful country! In all England, I do not believe that I could have fixed on a situation so completely removed from the stir of society,’” then said, “Harry, are you paying attention?”  
“Sure. Its just, I mean, I’ve heard of this book, but what’s it about?” Harry asked.  
“Its sort of a love story. Catherine and Heathcliff grow up together from the time that they’re children, and love each other. They roam the moors together, they’re completely free. Then they’re torn apart, which begins a generational rift. It sounds like a bodice-ripper, but trust me, it has substance,” Hermione said.  
“Wait, a what?” Harry laughed. “Who’s ripping bodices?”  
Hermione blushed. “No one, in Wuthering Heights, I promise. Its just an expression!”  
They laughed, and Harry felt alive. The spectre of Voldemort, the fact that neither of them could live while the other survived, fled for a moment. Hermione began reading again. She’d reached Mr. Lockwood’s dream of Catherine knocking at the window when Harry got up to make tea.  
“Earl Gray with lavender; oh, Hermione,” he sighed, bemused.  
“Hmm? What?” Hermione called, hearing her name.  
“Nothing. Go on. Is Catherine really a ghost?” Harry asked.  
“I can’t tell you, yet! I want you to make up your own mind at the end,” Hermione said.  
“Fair enough,” Harry said, and sat the tea down before Hermione.  
She set the book aside, and she said, “We really should be trying harder to get back. I’ve been thinking of how the boat steers itself. Isn’t that what we do when we’re children? We let the adults steer. We do what they tell us to do, and sometimes we take issue with it, but look at everything that we don’t argue with. What to wear, when to wake up, when to go to bed…Its safe, its comfortable. When you grow up, you decide all of that yourself. We’re adults, Harry. We chose not to return to Hogwarts for our last year, that was the first big decision we made for ourselves as adults. Why go backwards rather than forwards, now? We don’t have to let the Ether steer. What if we try to drive the boat ourselves? Can we will ourselves back to our world?”  
Harry wanted to protest. There were so many books Hermione hadn’t read to him. They had tea, they had food…he wanted to kiss her again. But, they had to return. He had to face Voldemort. She was braver than him, and kept him facing his future rather than running from it.  
“All right,” he said. “But…when all this is over, I want to finish Wuthering Heights.”  
Hermione smiled, and nodded. He could tell that she was summoning her courage as she walked ahead of him to the cockpit. Hermione sat down in the pilot’s seat, and took the wheel. As she did, the houseboat was rocked by a hard wave, that felt like a giant’s punch.  
Harry and Hermione looked out the windshield, and saw that the sky and water had darkened. Hermione turned the wheel, but it was no use. Beneath the boat, the waves were rising, and they were tossed in the hands of the turbulent sea.


	8. Chapter 8

The water’s force was but a tool of the wind. The wind whipped the waves like an angered wizard’s vengeance, stoking them to walls of black water. Even the waves themselves couldn’t be heard over the mighty wind. The roar of the wind, like a displeased goddess’s harangue, filled the house. The glass was charmed not to shatter, but water beat at the glass in a valiant effort to do just that. The books slapped and thudded to the ground, and hit the walls as the boat was rocked. Hermione gripped the wheel, gritting her teeth as she did, staring straight ahead at the storm. Harry felt useless, sitting in the passenger’s seat, just trying to hold on.  
“Read to me!” Hermione said.  
“What?” Harry said.  
“I don’t know where I’m going, this storm is like nothing I’ve ever seen in England…I need a bloody distraction!” Hermione said.  
Because he so seldom heard her say even ‘Merlin’s Beard,’ Harry grasped immediately how agitated Hermione must be if she was swearing. He braved the tumbling books in their living room, and searched for ‘Wuthering Heights,’ and picked up at the haunting of Mr. Lockwood by the ghostly Catherine Earnshaw.  
“ ‘Begone’, I shouted, “ I’ll never let you in, not if you beg for twenty years.’  
‘It is twenty years,’ mourned the voice. ‘twenty years, I’ve been a waif for twenty years!’” Harry read, but he was interrupted by the force of the wind rocking the boat. Harry was thrown from his chair, and he saw, through the glass, the towering dark waves blotting out the sky. It was becoming closer, closer, he knew with sickening certainty that he was about to hit the glass.  
‘Hermione,’ he thought, and closed his eyes.

When he opened them, he was in a corridor of Hogwarts, teeming with students in their dark robes trimmed at the hood and lining of their long sleeves with the color of their House. Harry didn’t recognize any of them, even the Gryffindors, although they appeared to be Sixth or Seventh years. He looked behind his shoulder. He was exiting the dungeon, and Slughorn was at his desk, so it was Potions he had just left. Harry wondered if he was dreaming, or if it was Dumbledore’s murder and the Horcrux hunt that had been a dream.  
He felt a jolt in his belly that meant he had just spied someone he’d hoped to run into and wanted to catch up with, and out of his mouth flew the name, “Lily!”  
The auburn haired girl turned around. She was wearing a black, crimson lined Gryffindor robe, and on her face a skeptical expression. It solidified into cold scorn as she came closer.  
“N.E.W.T. Potions. Congratulations, well done,” Lily said.  
“You got the O.W.L for it, why didn’t you schedule the class?” asked whoever’s memories Harry was experiencing. He knew, now, that he wasn’t himself. He was uttering a script that had already been written.  
“None of your business,” Lily said, her round, dark, lustrous green eyes narrowed to a powerful glare.  
“No! I know that! I meant…I just mean…the old Slug loves you, and you’re brilliant at Potions. Was it because of me? I thought that you would be in his class this year,” said the owner of the memories, whose life Harry was trapped to live.  
“You thought what? That we’d make Potions together, study together, act as if nothing happened? No, I didn’t want to see you in class, Yes, that is why I didn’t sign up for Sluggie’s N.E.W.T. class, and No, things aren’t going to be that way. Not this time,” Lily said.  
“Then what are things going to be like?” asked the boy Lily was talking to, and Harry could feel his floundering confidence and mounting frustration.  
“You know, with N.E.W.T.S in Potions, you could be an apothecary,” Lily said. “You could live in Hogsmeade. Or, have a little shop in Diagon Alley. I always wanted that for you. A life where you never had to go back to the Muggle world, where you could spend your days helping people with Potions, making them all day, trying out new formulas. We could have a cat that prowls around the shop…”  
“We?” the boy said hopefully.  
“I used to think,” Lily said sadly.  
“The time is past for dreams like that, Lily,” the boy said.  
“Yeah, I’m starting to pick up on that. He wants it that way, so that’s how it is. Join him, or die,” Lily said.  
“So, you understand, why I’m trying to cultivate certain connections. There’s hardly any choice. And no luxury to pretend. When the war is done…if you were on the right side of things…blood doesn’t matter. Its service, that the Dark Lord is after. If I serve him well, he’d grant us anything we asked for,” he said, with feverish certainty. The boy was completely oblivious to the look of disgust on Lily’s face, but Harry could see it. His mother was completely revolted, but there was also a hint of sadness in her eyes.  
“We?” she whispered incredulously.  
The boy grabbed her hand.  
“I love you, Lily! Marry me. I’ll protect you. When the war is over, we can have everything you dreamed about. The apothecary, the cat…I was wrong, I see it now. Blood doesn’t matter,” he said ardently.  
Harry wanted out of this memory, out of this boy’s body, whoever he was. He could feel a well of anger, doubt, and sadness inside of him, that the boy was trusting Voldemort more and more every day to solve and protect him from.  
Lily flinched away.  
“No!” she said, shocked, frowning in disbelief. “I don’t want anything that comes from him! Anything! What do you expect me to do? Hide behind whatever esteem Voldemort has for you because you’ve joined his bloody death squad, and pretend that he isn’t murdering people like me in cold blood? Lie about who I am, and let it happen while I get what I want? What’s wrong with you, Severus? How could you stoop that low, or think that I would?”  
“Lily!” Snape pleaded, putting more emotion into simply her name than a string of promises or pleas could contain.  
“I don’t know why I tried again,” Lily said, and stormed off. She caught up to the sandy haired, tall, skinny Prefect on duty, and with a jolt Harry recognized that it was a young Remus Lupin.  
Lupin’s face became marked with concern, and he put his arm around Lily, who, by her shuddering shoulders and hand held to her face, was obviously crying.  
Harry rallied his own mind and identity to consider what he had seen. His mother and Snape had been friends? Or, he had to admit, perhaps more. He’d had no indication of that in the memories he had seen in the Pensieve in Fifth year…but, she had vehemently defended Snape. He had assumed that she was just an intervening passerby, a good Samaritan, the kind of person who would stand up for an underdog against a bully no matter who they were. He had never guessed that she was motivated by personal loyalty to a friend…or a boyfriend, as it seemed, to defend Snape against James. But, Snape had called Lily a ‘Mudblood.’ What kind of person would call the girl they were in love with a Mudblood? His use of the slur wasn’t just ingratitude, but a terrible betrayal…no wonder it was Snape’s worst memory.  
Harry’s nebulous thoughts gathered into physical shock when he was hit by a cold wave. He felt himself drift, borne on the water beneath his belly, and gradually became aware of the soft, but gritty sand, and the salt water in his mouth and nose. Harry gripped the wet earth, and as more cold, foamy waves hit him he clawed at the ground and willed himself to his knees. He couched, wretched, spluttering and spitting water, and when he managed to open his eyes his blurry view of the pale sky and sand showed him that his glasses were quite gone, lost in the storm.  
His mind abandoned the topic of Snape’s memories, as much as he treasured the sight of his mother in those memories, and he had only one thought.  
“Hermione!” he cried. Harry struggled to his feet. Though they felt shaky, he had to find her.  
She was the loveliest sight she had ever behold, for all her soaking wet clothes and drenched hair, as she came running towards him, sobbing. He usually felt guilty and awkward when girls cried around him. Ginny’s tearlessness had been a blessing. Now, he was relieved that one of the two of them was sobbing. It relieved the roiling mélange of gratitude, elation, and delayed distress that he felt in his stomach. She was openly overwhelmed. There was something in the way, for Harry, when it came to showing emotion. When Hermione read ‘Great Expectations’, he had felt the ice around all he had held back starting to thaw, something threatening to break. Now, it was closer to the surface than it had ever been, at the sight of a pale, swollen morning sun shining behind Hermione as she ran to him.  
They all but collided, and Harry wrapped his arms around her. They didn’t kiss, because that would be paltry compared to what Harry really wanted. They both ended up standing on their knees in the sand, trying to will themselves as still as possible as they held each other close. Harry and Hermione both needed the same thing, to hear each other’s heartbeats, and feel each other’s lungs move beneath their clothes. They treasured each other’s breath, they listened to each other’s heartbeats.  
“Harry,” Hermione said hoarsely.  
“I’m here. Its all right. We’re safe,” he said, cradling her head lightly in his palms, treasuring every wet curl.  
“Where are we?” she asked.  
“I don’t know,” he said.  
“Harry!” she said, pulling back. “Your glasses!”  
“Yeah,” he admitted sadly, “They’re gone.”  
“I have the wand,” she said. “Accio, Harry’s glasses,” she cast.  
“Hermione, I don’t think that’s going to work,” he said, but, she held out her hand with a dogged look of expectation, and they sailed into her hands.  
Harry laughed with delight, and put his glasses back on. The world became clear, starting with the sight of Hermione.  
“That means they were in our house! Harry, it has to be somewhere around here, it didn’t sink, or collapse in the storm!” Hermione said.  
“Let’s look for it,” he said.  
They walked together on the beach, which went for miles in each direction, calm aquamarine waters quite different to the tempest they had survived lapping at the golden sand. The sun was bright and gentled overhead.  
“Lets call this Placida Island,” Hermione said. “Its peaceful here.”  
Harry smiled, and said. “Placida. Sounds like a place I’ve heard of, somewhere, and forgot about.” Just to have something to do with his hands, he had taken to picking up driftwood, and tossing it back into the foaming, frothing, calling, spraying water.  
“I have to tell you something,” Harry said. “When I was in the storm, I saw Snape’s memories.”  
“The ones of your father, and Sirius, from the Pensieve?” Hermione asked.  
“No…this seems like memories from the year after that, the sixth year. My mother…” Harry said, and stopped there.  
Lily. She had shone so brightly, through Snape’s eyes. He’d had to mindfully stop himself from pettingly touching her long, fiery tinged auburn hair, and her green eyes burned him like an enchanted fire. It wasn’t like the nagging physical desire Harry had felt for Ginny for most of his last year of school, plagued with the fantasy of kissing her in a corridor after Quidditch and feeling the curves of her toned, small body pressing against him the way they had been against Dean…when Snape looked at Lily, he felt something different…something like the desire to feel Hermione’s heartbeat and hear her breathing and revel in the fact that she existed. It was an ember beneath ashes, a steady warmth beneath the desperation to be forgiven, and anger at society he felt, but it was assuredly there.  
“What about her? Did you see her? Did he know her?” Hermione asked.  
“Um…pretty well, it seems like,” Harry said.  
He told her what he had seen in the memory in Snape’s Pensieve. He had told no one exactly what he had seen in there, except for Sirius and Remus. He told Hermione now, and concluded, “I thought my mum was just standing up for someone being bullied, I had no idea they were friends.”  
“Obviously, they weren’t, not really, if he called her that,” Hermione said harshly. “I always knew he hated Muggleborns. I didn’t have to be told. You can feel that sort of thing. You know when someone hates you.”  
“Hermione…” Harry was speechless. She never made a big deal of her problems…Harry realized now that he had never given her a chance to talk to them, had never fully appreciated her life.  
“Its all right,” she said hurriedly. “I can’t make anyone feel differently about my whole race, all by myself. Its just not fair, and its not right. Go on, Harry. So, your mother and Snape were friends?”  
“Or, more than that. From what I can tell, she tried to patch things up after he called her a Mudblood at the end of fifth year, but it looks like it had been a while since they’d spoken. He asked my mum to marry him!” Harry said.  
“To marry him?!” Hermione gasped. “Why would a blood supremacist want to marry a Muggleborn?”  
“He said he’d protect her by serving Voldemort. And, my mum said she didn’t want to hide behind him while other Muggleborns were being murdered, and lie about who she was,” Harry said.  
Hermione’s awe and admiration were palpable in her dark eyes. “That’s truly brave,” Hermione said. “Truly, Harry, that’s not something everyone would do. As we know now, Snape made it farther than anyone in Voldemort’s service. He’s his trusted right hand. He could have protected your mother, given her a life in the new world order. I told you, plenty of wizards lie about blood status.”  
“Yeah, half-bloods like me, Voldemort, or Snape. It’d be trickier for a Muggleborn, wouldn’t it?” Harry asked.  
“Well, no, not really. If your mother wanted to hide behind Snape’s achievements as a Death Eater, such as they were, and Voldemort thought highly enough of Snape to grant him the indulgence of a Muggleborn wife, everyone else would be forced by rank to overlook it. And, some people think Muggleborns are descended from Squib branches of Wizarding families. The magic becomes a dormant, recessive trait that suddenly springs back up, seemingly out of nowhere, as no one in living memory has any tie to the magical world. If someone wanted to…they could forge a family tree, say they’re descended through all four founders of Hogwarts, if they liked, but through a Squib. Oftentimes, it’s the only way a Wizarding family will accept a Muggleborn marrying in,” Hermione said, and added, “In case you were wondering why I never seriously dated anyone. Oh, that and never being asked.”  
“Don’t put yourself down,” Harry said.  
“Its hard…knowing that you’re quite literally not the girl a bloke could ‘take home to mother,’” Hermione said. “your mother was brave to turn down an offer like that, when Voldemort was on the rise.”  
“Well, that’s two of three,” Harry said.  
“Two of three?” Hermione asked.  
“The prophecy says my parents defied Voldemort three times. Hagrid told me that he wanted them to join up, become Death Eaters…and refusing to marry a Death Eater, that was two times, for my mum,” Harry said.  
“She was a very brave woman,” Hermione said, and the grave look in her eye told Harry that  
Lily’s plight had reminded Hermione of her own experiences at school, in the sometimes prejudiced world of wizards. It was becoming clear to Harry, as well, that Hermione’s struggles with prejudice and the danger of Voldemort in power were the same as his mother’s. He had been sheltered from the direct impact of blood prejudice because people knew him not as a half-blood, but as The Boy Who Lived. That eclipsed all other details of his life, even his Quidditch prowess. As for Ron and Ginny, they were Purebloods, even if their family was considered hopelessly liberal and poor. They would never know the danger that Voldemort posed to those he wanted to wipe from the earth through genocide, and that after humiliating, humbling, disenfranchising, and enslaving them.  
Like Snape had Lily, he had loved Hermione without understanding how fragile her safety and independence, even her continued existence, were.  
“Hermione, I’m sorry. I never knew how hard the Wizarding World was on you. So, I never really knew what things must have been like for my mum, either,” Harry said.  
“I’m far luckier than she is. I’ve had you, and…Ron,” she said, fortifying herself with a deep breath. “I can’t imagine being friends with someone who had such a deep conflict over feeling so strongly about a Muggleborn. Clearly, he was taught to hate before he even met your mother. It’s a certain, and especially cruel kind of abuse, to teach a child to hate.”  
Harry couldn’t find any words to meet such a profound statement. He took Hermione’s hand, as they walked beside the ceaseless ocean, and looked for home.  
‘How?’ Harry asked himself. How had the boy who had loved his mother enough to ask her to elope at such a young age, just 16, be the one to betray her to Voldemort by telling him the prophecy? Harry didn’t know why he was asking himself: by murdering Dumbledore, Snape had more than proved himself capable of cheerfully betraying people who trusted him, people he had seemed to care for or respect.  
“How do you think I got Snape’s memories?” Harry asked.  
Hermione hesitated. “I have a theory…” she said, sounding reluctant to share it.  
Harry could guess, and knew he had earned her reticence. “Go ahead.”  
“I would never use a spare textbook that’s been lying around Hogwarts, the way you did last year. Hogwarts is thousands of years old, and a repository of magic of all sorts: ancient, malevolent, frivolous, capricious, experimental. Students try all sorts of things, and all sorts of people have passed through Hogwarts,” Hermione said. “that being said, I think that book had a Charm on it even Snape didn’t know about.”  
“What sort of charm, Hermione?” Harry asked.  
“One to make the book a Tactile Palimpsest,” Hermione said. “It records impressions of memories and strong emotions.”  
“Like…a Pensieve,” Harry said.  
“Or, an accidental Horcrux. Not exactly a part of someone’s soul, but certainly moments that have deeply emotionally impacted them,” Hermione said.  
“So, the book’s memories possessed me?” Harry asked.  
“No, not quite, but you bonded with the book, and absorbed some of what it recorded,” Hermione said. “you were trying to survive, and in those primal moments of life and death, we think of those we most care about. You summoned the memory you absorbed of your mother. Maybe because you have few personal memories of her, your magic produced that one. It found her, even though you didn’t know she was there.”  
“I’m just glad I found you,” Harry said earnestly.  
Hermione threw her arms around him. Affection came so easily to her: hugs, kisses, talking about her feelings or encouraging others to. This was love, and it was easy for her.  
“Harry! I think I understand…that’s why Snape felt compelled to help you, even though he hated you, even though we now know he never rescinded his loyalty to Voldemort. Your mother…he couldn’t bring himself to kill her child. He still loved her,” he said.  
“I don’t think his love could do anyone much good,” Harry said. “I don’t want to be like him.”  
Hermione frowned, confused, as if this was the least likely thing she could think of. He couldn’t put into words exactly what he was feeling as he took Hermione’s hand. He felt that he needed to care more. He had known that Voldemort needed to be stopped, but for the most immediately compelling personal reasons: revenge for his parents’ death, and to kill Voldemort before Voldemort killed him. It had never, before, compelled him, all the hundreds of innocent people Voldemort wanted to kill, to snuff, to exterminate: Muggleborns, like his mother and Hermione, blood traitors, like the Weasleys, werewolves, like Lupin, giants, like Hagrid and Grawp…this was why the Order of the Phoenix existed, why people were risking their lives to fight. It wasn’t for Harry, it wasn’t for Dumbledore, or Godric Gryffindor. It was for their lives, and for the future. For a world that had opportunities, life, liberty, and fulfillment for all the people excluded from Voldemort’s vision.  
Harry frantically wanted to return to the Wizarding World of England. But, they couldn’t even find their little enchanted house.  
“Harry! Look!” Hermione said.  
In the trees, set safely away from where the tide stained the sand dark with the splaying spray of crashing waves, was their intact house, waiting for them.


	9. Chapter 9

The last thing Hermione would have thought she would want is a shower after being waterlogged and tossed by the wild waves of the storm, but she yearned for one after she and Harry finished repairing some of the damage to their little house. He gallantly let her have the first shower. He had been very gallant, lately…not too polite, but natural and kind, the way Hermione had always pictured Edgar Linton, or Captain Brandon. But, life wasn’t a classic novel, and Harry was a boy, not a story, she reminded herself.  
Hermione turned on the hot water, and listened to the safe sound of it pouring from the showerhead, shedding steam and filling the room with mugginess. She stripped off her soggy clothes, and her skin felt cool and raw, exposed to the air. Mist began to cradle and caress her nude body, heat soothing away the cold. She took the English lavender soap in hand, turned it in her wet hands until it produced foam that smelled sweet and fresh, like laundry. She stepped into the shower.  
Her mind cleared as she soaped up and let the water pour, hot and soothing, on her body, and wash the lavender foam away. She tried not to think of anything…of Dumbledore’s funeral, of Obliviating her parents, of fleeing Bill’s and Fleur’s wedding. She refused to be afraid of the encroaching threat of Voldemort. She had done her best to eschew fear and stick to that decision when she decided to go to Hogwarts. She thought of how her mother always called her, “my brave little girl.” The tears threatened to fall…she felt them burn and gather in her eyes….Hermione hugged herself. She was embarrassed that she was such an easy crier.  
‘Just because you’re lost doesn’t mean that all is lost. You can still find control in this situation,’ she told herself, rallying her courage as if gathering loose threads in her heart. She began to feel a little better. She wondered what Harry told himself to rally his courage…then reminded herself that she wasn’t thinking about Harry. She never should have let feelings beyond friendship creep in that had never been there before. Well…maybe there were some moments, of deep concern and appreciation that were more than sisterly, more than friendly…but she had always controlled them. She could do so, now.  
She wasn’t his type. She knew that. She accepted it. He liked girls with straight hair…Quidditch chicks…being with Ginny was a way to remain close to the Weasleys after school, and she knew this wasn’t a conscious motivation on Harry’s part, but sometimes what lived under our skin, in the depths of our minds, was more of a motivation than any conscious strategy. She repeated this litany of reasons why their two kisses didn’t matter, why it would never work and wasn’t really happening.  
She closed her eyes, and from the depths rose images, feelings…Hermione felt lips upon her’s, a boy’s lips, firm and slightly chapped, tasted his breath, felt them share a breath. She fell into the headiness of it, just like she had with Viktor at the Yule Ball. A kiss was hard to resist, hard to break. It was like an incantation, a magic working its will once begun.  
But, she did pull away, looking into the boy’s eyes. They were as dark as a raven’s.  
“Give it back, Lily,” he said.  
“No,” Hermione said, feeling the words fall from her lips even though she hadn’t thought of them. It was as if she was living someone else’s life.  
‘Lily,’ Hermione thought. ‘Harry’s mother! I touched the Tactile Palimpsest too! I’m living her memories, recorded in the book. Okay. Breathe, Granger. Get control of this experience.’  
She pulled back and looked around. She was in the reflecting garden at Hogwarts, stone benches around a fountain, and gargoyle statues regarding their own gray, grotesque reflections in the water. It was dusk, a violet blue sky overhead cradled by the gables and towers of the castle’s various wings. Standing before her was a young Severus Snape. He wasn’t a handsome boy…but, his features were distinctive. A prominent, aquiline nose, and eyes like a raven’s, round, dark, with a piercing gaze. He was pale, with shoulder length dark hair, as Hermione knew the adult Snape. But, his sixteen year old self had slouching shoulders and a vulnerable, kicked-puppy look, a slight plaintive light in his eyes. He had not yet developed the indefatigable stoicism and superiority that he was infamous for as a professor.  
She could feel what Lily felt for him…a desperation to protect him from himself that Hermione knew all too well. Here was a boy who was destroying himself a little more every day, and she wanted to stop it, but she couldn’t be too hard, too nagging, too motherly, too involved at all, or she’d cross the line from friend to nag, and he’d just avoid or lash out at her. Hermione knew that feeling very well.  
Lily, Hermione, or both of them said, “If I give you back your book, you’ll leave.”  
“You think I’m here for my bloody Potions book? I don’t care about school anymore, Lily. Steal all my textbooks. Burn them. Throw them out the bloody Astronomy Tower. I’m done with this place,” Snape said.  
“You always wanted to come to Hogwarts! Remember?” Lily said. “You told me everything I knew about Hogwarts, and being a wizard. I would have been so scared without you, Sev. I would have been alone.”  
“I remember everything, Lily. I remember how much we wanted to come here…together,” Snape said, and the softness and warmth in his voice struck Hermione as almost perversely at odds with the mean, bitter, sniping, undermining, sometimes frightening man who had taught her for six years…the man who had killed the greatest wizard of the age, Albus Dumbledore.  
“Remember this?” Lily asked. She picked up a handful of snow, and waved her wand. In her hand, the snow became a branch beaded with buds, flowers or leaves that hadn’t opened. She passed it to Snape. He didn’t need his wand, anymore. With a sad smile, and a graceful, slight wave of his hand, the buds opened and became Christmas blackthorn flowers, dainty and white.  
Lily looked at the product of their shared magic in awe, and returned his sad smile. Tears started to fall down her cheeks.  
“Sev,” she said. “Remus told me not to try again. To stop breaking my own heart. But….if there was no more good in you, if there was nothing left of the boy I’ve always known, I think I would feel it. Like twins can feel it if one of them is in pain. I would know if you weren’t you, anymore. But, I don’t think you’re hopeless. I know you’re not.”  
He handed her the blackthorn branch, and she held it. Hermione saw her own, or rather, Lily’s reflection in the mirror. With her dark red hair, in a black Gryffindor robe, holding the white flowers, she looked like an ancient goddess of justice, who weighed men’s souls.  
“I have to go, Lily,” Snape said.  
“To join them. That’s the life you’ve chosen,” she said bitterly.  
“I can’t go back now. When they call, I have to go,” he said.  
“Be your own man! Make your own choice!” Lily cried, outraged.  
“You don’t understand,” Snape said calmly. Slowly, he raised the sleeve of his Slytherin robe, and both Hermione and Lily recoiled in horror when they saw the Dark Mark branded on Snape’s pale flesh.  
He looked at her in grim satisfaction. He had wanted her to be horrified, to finally stop trying to save him. Maybe that was his way of saving her. He nodded, and Apparated away, leaving Lily holding the blackthorn branch, standing by the fountain alone.  
The pain she, Lily, felt, deep in her stomach, and in her chest, was what Hermione felt when Harry was in danger. Was it weakness, or was it love? Lily tossed the Potions textbook into the fountain. She looked at the blackthorn branch, and hesitated, before tossing that in, too, and running back to the castle.  
The memories clear. Hermione breathed deeply, nearly hyperventilating, trying to differentiate her own emotions, and the present, from the turmoil that Lily had felt.  
“Hermione?” Harry called. “You’ve been in there a while, are you all right?”  
Hermione quickly switched off the water, dried off, and put on a fluffy white bath towel she had modelled off the ones at the Bath Priory Hotel where she had stayed with her mum, when they went to see the Roman baths. She dried her wet hair, and came out of the bath. Harry was looking at her with concern. He had no idea how penetrating his green eyes were. They had a smoldering glow, like an enchanted fire fortifying the egg of a basilisk under auspicious stars. His mother had had the same eyes, and Hermione suspected they had the same affect on Snape that Harry’s eyes did on her: she couldn’t lie to them, and when they were fully turned on her she wanted to run. He was sitting on a barstool at the kitchen island, his eyes poised to listen to her, waiting for her to speak.  
“I saw something,” Hermione said. “A memory. Your mother’s memory.”  
“Another one of Snape’s memories of my mum?” Harry asked eagerly.  
“No. Lily’s own memory. She touched the book, too. She was playing keep-away with it, so to speak, keeping it away from Snape to confront him about running away from school to join the Death Eaters. It looked like Christmas time. Anyway, I can’t imagine still being drawn to someone after they’d called me…that word. But, she said that he was the one who had told her about Hogwarts, that she wouldn’t have known anything about it, and she would have been alone, but for him. Harry, can you imagine? The person who told you that you’re a wizard, obviously someone she had known since she was a child, your first love, I’d wager, turning on you like that, to dark magic, to blood supremacy, to Voldemort…but, still, you feel drawn to them, compelled to save them from themselves?” Hermione said.  
“I just can’t believe this is Snape we’re talking about. Snape, and my mum. I guess I assumed a lot. I figured that my dad’s best friends were her best friends, too. In that picture, from their wedding day, my mum and dad and Sirius look so happy together,” Harry said wistfully.  
“You thought they were like you, me, and Ron?” Hermione guessed.  
Harry smiled sadly, and nodded. “I reckon I did,” he said.  
“I’m sure they were. Maybe they just got closer after school. It seems like she and Professor Lupin were rather close. Close enough for him to give her advice about Snape. In the memory I saw, she said that Professor Lupin told her not to try to get through to Snape again,” Hermione said.  
“Clearly, she didn’t listen,” Harry said.  
“I see where you got your stubborn streak from,” Hermione laughed. “And…she has your heart. Consider, Harry, this was before he killed Dumbledore, and your mum knew him long before he was a Death Eater. When they were just children…before Hogwarts, it sounds like. She saw the good in him, and she loved him.”  
“That’s what Lupin told me. About my mum, I mean. That she could see the good in people, even when they couldn’t see it themselves. But, do you think it was anything…more than that, with Snape?” Harry asked.  
Hermione hesitated.  
Harry sighed. “Hermione, go ahead. I think I’ve pretty much worked out the answer,” Harry said.  
“Well, in this memory…they kissed. I do think they were a bit more than friends,” Hermione said softly.  
“You remembered it from my mum’s point of view, right?” Harry asked.  
Hermione nodded. Harry burst out laughing.  
“I’m sorry, Hermione! I hate to laugh, but…that means you kissed Snape!” he howled.  
Hermione grimaced in distaste, but eventually she begrudgingly laughed, too. “I prefer not to think of it that way, if you don’t mind,” she said.  
Harry settled down, and said, “Well, this explains why he hated my dad. And, why my dad hated him. Why d’you reckon Sirius and Lupin never mentioned that Snape and my dad were fighting over my mum?”  
“Because they’re gentlemen,” Hermione said. “they didn’t want you to think badly of her, or the situation. I doubt she was intentionally trying to string anyone along. Snape wasn’t an option after he fell in with the Death Eaters, obviously. I respect her immensely for not living a lie, obscuring her Muggleborn heritage to fit in and survive. I suppose after Snape left school, she was in a pretty raw emotional place, and reconsidered things.”  
“Rebounded with my dad, you mean?” Harry said wryly.  
“That doesn’t mean they didn’t truly love each other,” Hermione said.  
“Well, its not as if I’ll ever know. I can’t very well ask anyone, can I?” Harry said bitterly.  
“I’m sure Professor Lupin will be happy to answer any questions you have about either of your parents,” Hermione said.  
His tense shoulders settled, and his face looked calmer. “You’re right,” he said.  
“But, you’d rather ask Sirius?” Hermione asked.  
Harry sighed. “Yeah. There was so much that I didn’t get a chance to ask him,” Harry said. “Luna Lovegood told me that the things we lose have a funny way of coming back to us. I don’t know if it works that way, with people.”  
“People leave echoes, Harry, of their time on earth. Things they’ve done, for good or ill, things they have created and accomplished, their families, and their love. You find your father every time you cast a Patronus. And you found your mother, in the Palimpsest memories. You find Sirius every time you think of him,” Hermione said. She worried that she had gone on too long, and said too much when she noticed Harry looking at her with those penetrating green eyes.  
“You’re brilliant, Hermione,” Harry said. He’d told her so millions of times in seven years…but the deeply appreciative, warm and loving way he said it now pierced her heart.  
“I could feel the things your mother felt, in that memory. I can’t imagine, watching you choose darkness over me, and not being able to stop you. She must have been heartbroken,” Hermione murmured, and looked away, out the window, at the moonlit beach and the ocean, which was as black as the night sky.  
Harry touched her shoulders. “She got over it. Merlin only knows how, but she fell in love with my dad, married him, and joined the Order of the Phoenix. She chose the cause she believed in, and…I think she was happy. She looks happy, in the pictures I have of her. She’s like you, Hermione. She was strong,” he said.  
“Like you,” Hermione said.  
He dared to touch her jaw, tracing it with his fingertips. Hermione felt the same irresistible gravity moving them together as she had in the memory of Lily and Snape. The air around them seemed to be urging them closer, closer…  
Hermione moved away.  
“Hermione…” Harry said, and cupped her chin. She gently pushed at his wrist, and said,  
“Harry, no! You’re right, about your mother. She got over Snape, by choosing herself. I have to do that, too,” Hermione said.  
“I’m not likely to become a Death Eater, am I, so we can rule that out. But, I understand why it would be a deal breaker,” Harry quipped.  
“Harry! No, maybe you wouldn’t become a Death Eater, like he did…but, you could leave me in other ways, Harry, and it would hurt just as much as what I felt in that memory,” Hermione said.  
“I’m not going anywhere,” Harry said.  
“Because you can’t! We’re trapped together. We’re like the very last people on earth, here in the Ether, so of course we’re bonding in a new way and feeling very intensely about each other. But, as we’ve already discussed, you don’t choose me when you have a choice,” Hermione said. “So, its not safe for me to choose you, either.”  
“Look, you dated Viktor Krum, you fancied Ron, I dated Ginny and kissed Cho, so what? We were kids, that was school. We tried things with people who wanted to try them with us. That doesn’t mean that I don’t ….that I can’t…Hermione, I’m telling the truth, and the truth is that I…I care about you. I really, really do,” Harry said, and every word sounded as if it cost him something. These kinds of conversations had never come easily for him.  
“Ginny’s waited so long for you,” Hermione said. “She’s my friend…I can’t do that to her. I’ve already done far too much.”  
“We talked about Quidditch, made fun of Ron and Lavender, and kissed. We broke up, and…I don’t feel like the same person I was, when I couldn’t get her off my mind. I was hot for her, all right? Is that what you want, for me to admit that I thought she looked damn good on a broom, and I wanted to…I don’t even know what I wanted to do, because I never had anyone to ask about this sort of thing, to tell me how it goes…but, I kept thinking about her, about…” Harry spluttered into silence, looking and sounding anguished. Hermione put her hand on his wrist in comfort, and willing him to look at her.  
“Harry, those sorts of feelings are nothing to be ashamed of. We all have them, and this is a normal time in your life to develop them. But, they can confuse things. Maybe what you felt for Ginny was always just…physical. And that’s okay. I mean, we all notice people, in a physical way. It isn’t dirty, or shameful. Its just our nature. And, sometimes, they’re accompanied by other feelings, a romantic sort of love, but not always,” Hermione said. “And, they don’t have to be.”  
He nodded, absorbing what she was saying, and he was visibly beginning to feel better. Hermione was moved with empathy, saddened that there was so much Harry had been robbed of by his parents’ death. The Dursleys didn’t even provide him clothes and food, of course they’d never had a ‘birds and the bees’ talk with him.  
“You kissed Ginny after you broke up. Before we left. If…when we return home, you have to sort things out with her. I can’t let myself fall in love with you until you’ve made it clear how you feel, or don’t feel, to her,” Hermione said.  
Harry looked at the fireplace.  
“We forgot to Transfigure more wood, before we burnt the last log,” Harry said.  
“There’s plenty of driftwood outside, on the beach,” Hermione said.  
“Do you want to go collect some?” Harry asked.  
Hermione nodded. She went to the bedroom, and put on some proper clothes, and a pair of trainers. They went outside, and walked in silence, picking up wet wood.  
After a while, Harry said, “What about Ron?”  
“What about him?” Hermione asked.  
Moonlight dappled the foam of the breaking waves, and the tips of their crests as they surged to the beach. The ceaseless sound of the water murmured loudly before them.  
“You felt the same way about Ron, that I did about Ginny, didn’t you? I mean, shouldn’t you sort that out, too?” Harry asked.  
“It wasn’t the same at all! Yes, I did fancy him…and there were moments when I thought he felt something, too…but, you and Ginny were all over each other!” Hermione said.  
“We were not!” Harry said indignantly. “I mean, after the match with Ravenclaw, when we won the Quidditch cup…when she won it, playing Seeker…I guess I was just excited, and grateful…”  
“I know that, I mean, after. The corridors, empty classrooms, the common room, by the lake,” Hermione said, ticking off on her fingers places where she had seen, or gossip had reported, that Harry and Ginny had snogged.  
“Kissing her was like a holiday. Like someone else’s life. And that’s what I wanted. To be someone else. How do I tell her that?” Harry said.  
“There is no easy way to say it, but if she really cares about you, she’ll understand,” Hermione said.  
“And then?” Harry asked.  
“And then, what?” Hermione asked.  
“Then, you’ll let me kiss you again?” Harry asked.  
“This isn’t a to-do list, Harry,” Hermione said. “but, it is something I need you to do, one day.”  
Harry’s penetrating green eyes met her’s. He looked as if he was about to speak, but Hermione didn’t know what he would have said. Harry fell face first to the sand, pushed by a dark figure that had burst from the forest, and growled bestially as it turned Harry over and bashed him with furious punches.  
“GET OFF OF HIM! STOP!” Hermione cried, as she beat and punched and pulled at Harry’s attacker’s filthy, tangled dark hair. Harry did his best to get the attacker off, as well, and as the two men separated, lying on the grass and panting from expending so much energy in their struggle, Hermione saw who it was that had crazedly attacked Harry. His hair was a tangled, overgrown mess, and he had a wild beard, as well. His clothes were filthy rags, tattered and worn, but Hermione could still just make out the Victorian wizards’ clothes he had worn at Grimmauld Place.  
“Sirius!” she cried.  
Despite his faults, no one could doubt how fiercely Sirius loved Harry. That love was nowhere apparent in his gray eyes. They were crazed with a mindless fury that had made Harry its object. They grappled once more, and Hermione drew her wand, aimed as best as she could at Sirius and cried, “Bombardo!”  
He flew apart from Harry, and for good measure, she cast, “Petrificus Totalus!” and “Incarcerous!”  
Sirius was not only petrified, but tied up in enchanted ropes. Hermione rushed over to Harry. His expression was pained, and he was touching his side in pain.  
“Harry, are you hurt?!” Hermione asked frantically, crouching beside him.  
He looked from her to Sirius, and his eyes were bright with shock as he held up his bloodied fingers. Hermione looked down, and her stomach sank, her chest tightened, at the sight of the wound beneath the torn slash in Harry’s tshirt. The flesh was torn, and pouring bright crimson blood.  
“The tip of the dagger….Hermione, it’s a basilisk fang…” Harry said, with a finality that hit her at once, and seemed to open the ground beneath her.  
Basilisk venom: the emperor of all poisons. She looked up at the sky, and saw only the dizzying stars and cold moon. No phoenix or caladrius was coming. Harry’s green eyes met Hermione’s, silently trying to tell her that this was it, the poison was spreading.  
“My bag! Harry, we have to make it back to the house, my bag, I have essence of dittany, a bezoar, yarrow, we can cure you, we can fix this!” she pleaded.  
“Sirius…” he said, and panic impaled Hermione’s heart at how weak his voice sounded.  
“That’s not Sirius! It can’t be,” Hermione said. “We have to get you to the house.”  
She helped Harry to his feet, but it was a struggle. He was becoming weaker, and gritting his teeth through it, trying to stay steady on his feet.  
“We don’t know that that’s not him. We have to help him. What if he fell through the Veil, and came to the Ether? Who knows what he’s been through?” Harry asked.  
“He stabbed you with a basilisk fang!” Hermione said, outraged. “We can’t waste any time, we have to tend to your wound!”  
Harry didn’t argue, and they did their best to make it to their house.

Hermione’s world had suddenly become even more simple. She and Harry weren’t just the only people left on earth…now, he needed her to live. As soon as she helped him into bed, Harry closed his eyes and exhaled deeply, letting go of the effort not to show his pain, and the toll of the poison.  
“Don’t stop fighting, Harry, but don’t push yourself too hard. I need you to stay focused, stay with me,” she said, as she rummaged through her bag, and produced every herb, essence, and antidote she had brought along.  
She poured the potions into Harry’s wound, down his throat, and ran between the bedroom and the kitchen putting herbs on to boil, mixing potions. She had to charm cauldrons, vials, and spoons to stir the potions themselves while she did several other tasks, and applied cool, wet towels to Harry’s increasingly feverish and hot body. Adrenaline propelled her forward. She was the only one he had, and failing him was not an option. Love was like clockwork, winding her into action, propelling her forward, and not allowing her to flag.  
She darted back to the bedroom when Harry began to cough violently. She helped him sit up, and as she did she noticed that the wound had closed. Hermione was excited and relieved, a heady mix of strong emotions that rose goosepimples along her arms, to think that something she had tried had actually cured him. She rubbed his back as he coughed, and held a glass of cool water to his lips. But, he quickly knocked it aside, and began to wretch.  
Hermione prepared herself to see Harry vomit into his lap…but, instead, what issued from his mouth seemed to be black smoke. The smoke poured profusely, rolling in an unholy stream, and as the smoke issued from Harry, it filled the room. His eyes glowed as green as the Killing Curse, as did his scar. Hermione tried to breathe, but the smoke was filling the air, choking her, filling her ears with the sound of wind as mighty as the sound of the ocean. Mightier, it was drowning out everything, she couldn’t think, and she felt weak, she couldn’t fight it…She vaguely reached for her wand and the basilisk fang dagger, but she could feel her consciousness slipping away.  
She heard the door burst open, and someone call, “Harry, Hermione!”  
Sirius ran into the bedroom, raised his wand, and cried, “Evanesco!”  
The smoke cleared, but coalesced again. She saw faces in the smoke. She caught Sirius’s eyes, and saw that he noticed it, too. But, after how he had attacked Harry, she wasn’t quick to trust him.  
“Its alive. Whatever’s in there, it was once alive, and it still has a consciousness. It wants to attach to someone or something in the room,” Sirius said. He seemed to have recovered his wits, and sounded like himself.  
“Its Voldemort! That’s apart of his soul! How do we get rid of it?” Hermione asked. Harry had fallen limply onto the bed, and looked unconscious. Her chest ached to go to him.  
“We’ll have to banish it with its name, like a demon. Say, ‘Avant, Voldemort!’” Sirius said.  
“That’s not his true name!” Hermione said. “Avant, Tom Riddle!” she cried.  
She and Sirius both repeated, “Avant, Tom Riddle!” until the smoke cleared.  
The roaring in her ears stopped. Hermione took deep breaths, catching her breath, gulping air as if it were water, and she had just crossed a desert. Sirius was kneeling by Harry’s side, and had clasped his godson’s limp, inert hand.  
“Harry…what have I done…what have I done?” Sirius said, in hollow despair.  
“Saved…my life..” Harry croaked, as he sat up, and added, “and…my soul. You saved my soul, Sirius.”  
Harry was covered in a film of sweat, and his eyes looked feverish, but he was blinking awake, and looking at Sirius and Hermione in awe.  
“Sirius, what happened?” Hermione said.  
“The dagger…she gave it to me…before she drove me mad…she said that only in madness would I find my purpose again, and that when I saw a stranger my duty was to pierce him with the basilisk’s fang… and only then would I be myself, again,” he said, in a dazed, weary voice.  
“You were under a spell? Sirius, who bewitched you?” Harry said.  
“Morgana. This is her island,” Sirius said.  
“Morgana?” Hermione said skeptically. “That’s impossible. There was no Morgana. She’s a myth, a legend, a composite of several Celtic deities conflated into the figure of Arthurian legend.”  
“There’s truth behind every legend, Hermione,” Sirius said.  
“Don’t! How dare you play the mentor after what you did to Harry?!” Hermione seethed.  
“Hermione, I’m fine. I stabbed the diary with the basilisk fang, and that killed the part of Voldemort’s soul that was in it. The same happened to the bit of Voldemort that was in me when Sirius stabbed me. It didn’t hurt me, but it drove out the bit of Voldemort that’s been inside me since his curse rebounded when I was a baby,” Harry said.  
“The caladrius feather! I’m going to add it to the antidote, just in case. Its not phoenix tears, but its still quite powerful,” Hermione said.  
“If this really is Morgana’s island, then she wants to help us. Sirius, she drove you mad because she knew you would never stab me with that thing in your right mind. And she set you up to wait for me and Hermione. Maybe she brought us all to the Ether, to help us,” Harry said.  
“That doesn’t give me any kind of free pass, Harry. I hurt you, and I can’t excuse myself of that,” Sirius said gravely .  
Hermione looked at him…his face was engraved with remorse. It was surreal that he was alive, after all this time…she could accept that he hadn’t been himself when he attacked Harry, but was a witch who had lived thousands of years ago really responsible for this turn of events?  
Hermione needed to get control of this situation ,which was quickly becoming more and more complex.  
“Sirius, go get a shave, and a shower. I believe you,” she decided. “I’ll see to Harry. When we’re done, you must tell us everything that’s happened since you fell through the Veil.” 


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who's left a comment-I appreciate your feedback. However, starting with this chapter comments will be turned off. Feel free to leave kudos if you haven't already, and thanks for enjoying the story, which is a lot of fun to write and share with you:)

“Harry, you don’t have to help me cook, its fine, rest,” Hermione said.  
“Hermione, I’m fine,” Harry said. “the part of Voldemort’s soul that lived in me absorbed the poison, it didn’t affect me.”  
He rolled up the sleeves of his sweater, took a knife from the caddy on the kitchen counter, and began chopping pieces of Transfigured butternut squash for a soup that they were preparing. Hermione chopped celery, but looked up to give Harry a skeptical look.  
“Harry, I cannot stress how unprecedented this all is,” Hermione said. “As you well know, you are the only wizard to survive the Killing Curse. And now, you are the only wizard to survive being poisoned by basilisk venom, or being made a Horcrux.”  
“What, you’re saying that one day, my luck will run out?” Harry said. “That’s occurred to me, trust me.”  
“No,” Hermione groaned in annoyance. “I pray not, at least. Don’t be morbid! What I mean is, don’t trust what’s never been tried. We have to approach this scientifically…gauging how you get on in the next few hours, days, and drawing conclusions from what we observe about you.”  
“Look, ‘Mione, I get that, but as far as I observe, I feel okay. Let me help you. You do too much by yourself. And you hate cooking,” Harry said.  
Hermione smiled. “I don’t hate it, exactly. I suppose I haven’t done much of it. My parents like to eat out. I mean, we live in London! Why waste all the rich gastro opportunities?”  
Harry laughed softly, gracing Hermione with a lingering smile. The sound of Sirius’s shower, and the rhythmic sound of their knives hitting their respective cutting boards filled the companionable silence.  
“So, what sort of takeout do you and your parents like?” Harry asked, just to watch the beautiful lights of warm remembrance in Hermione’s eyes when she talked about her parents.  
“Curry!” she answered quickly, and began listing her favourite curry spots in London. Harry listened, watching her escape for a bit into good memories.  
Sirius came out of the shower, drying his hair and wearing a bathrobe. Sirius looked at Harry and Hermione, and said,  
“Am I interrupting?”  
Hermione moved a conspicuous distance apart, so that their shoulders were no longer touching.  
“No, no, not at all,” she said quickly, and pointedly turned toward the pot of boiling water, and sliding vegetables from the cutting board in.  
Harry looked at her, a bit bemused, a bit perturbed. He was beginning to feel a little stung that, after their kisses, she was pulling so drastically back. Harry had always been too bashful with girls to put himself in situations where he could be or feel rejected, but he was sure that the stung feeling he was nursing now was it, rejection. Maybe his Siren-induced vision of Ginny had put her off, or a feeling of disloyalty to Ron. Either way, he quickly turned his attention back to Sirius. He took in the sight of his godfathers face, the tattooes at his throat and his hands, and treasured that he was truly alive, before him.  
Sirius smiled, and put his hands to Harry’s face, and looked long and lovingly into his eyes.  
“Harry, forgive me. I promised your mum and dad that I’d look after you, raise you and love you as my own son if anything happened to them. But, I haven’t done that. I let you down, and I left you more times than I can count, and I hurt you,” Sirius said.  
“Sirius, I’m just glad that you’re…you’re…” the breath fled Harry’s lungs, words failed him, as he tried to shape the word ‘alive’.  
It was as hard for him to believe as Sirius’s death had been for him to accept. He had fought in Lupin’s grasp to run to Sirius, to look for him, to fight for him, to save him, he had known with every fiber of his bones that something was wrong. Sirius would never leave him, or stay away with no word or sign, if he had a choice. Harry had been instantly sure of his love the minute he learned the truth about who had betrayed his parents, and he had never doubted that love.  
He knew that he was shaking, but he didn’t realize that he was crying until he felt Sirius’s thumbs drying his tears, wiping them from Harry’s eyes as they fell. The room blurred, and Harry blindly trusted to his godfather’s hands.  
“Sirius, I have to die,” Harry blurted. “It’s the only way…Dumbledore…the prophecy,” he blubbered, and broke down into gasping sobs. He felt more than saw Hermione rush to the sitting room from the kitchen, and both she and Sirius put their arms around Harry. Together, all three of them breathed through Harry’s tears until they stilled.  
“Look at me, Harry,” Sirius said. “Focus on me, all right?”  
Hermione was soothingly rubbing Harry’s shoulders. That helped ground him, and he focused on Sirius’s gray eyes.  
“Sirius…how much did you know, about the prophecy?” Harry asked.  
“Dumbledore told me about Trelawney’s prophecy…and that he had theories about your connection to Voldemort. He advised me not to alarm you, and distract you from school, and handling Umbridge. I trusted him to tell you as much as he thought was prudent when the time was right,” Sirius said. “Perhaps you consider it cowardly of me, or a betrayal. And I’m as sorry for that as all the rest. How much has he told you?”  
“As much as he knew for sure. Before he died,” Harry said.  
Sirius’s face was stricken, but he quickly recovered. He absorbed the news, and as they watched him regain composure Harry and Hermione realized just how much of his life he had spent at war.  
“Why do you think you have to die to fulfill the prophecy?” Sirius asked, controlling strong emotions beneath a calm façade.  
“That’s what it says: neither can live, while the other survives. I’m a Horcrux. The part of Voldemort in me has to die…so that he can be killed,” Harry said.  
“Well, then we took care of that bit, didn’t we? Banished him right out of you,” Sirius said, with a touch of smug pride. Not all wizards, after all, could say they performed a banishment ceremony on a dark wizard’s soul fragment.  
“Erm, yeah, but, what about the fact that neither of us can live while the other is alive?” Harry said.  
“Then, Voldemort can’t live if you live? And you can’t live if Voldemort lives?” Sirius said. “Look, Harry, Divination doesn’t work the way people think it does.”  
“It’s a highly subjective art, and its vagueries are ripe for fraudulence,” Hermione said severely.  
“You could put it that way, Mione…but what I’m getting at is, Divination speaks more to the nature of a thing, than a prediction, per se,” Sirius said. “I suppose that’s why its been such an unsatisfactory way for Muggles to predict the vicissitudes of their love lives.”  
With crossed arms, and a sour expression, Hermione huffed, “I’m sure.”  
Sirius smirked bemusedly. “Is this going to be difficult?”  
“She dropped the subject before the end of third year,” Harry said, holding back a laugh.  
“I just don’t believe that some wild claim of Trelawney’s of all people should be Harry’s, or anyone’s guiding light! Human beings have reason, and free will, and agency, to shape our own fates! It will drive you mad, believing you have no choice but to march to your death against Voldemort, when the whole of the Order of the Phoenix is fighting him, too! Its…irrational!” Hermione exploded.  
“I agree, actually, as I was going to explain,” Sirius said patiently.  
“She can get a bit worked up over the subject,” Harry said.  
“Of you dying?! Well, yes!” she said, and smacked his arm in chastisement.  
“You don’t believe that Seers can truly tell the future. Okay, I have my doubts about that, too. But, they do have a certain…intuition. The true ones, anyway. For our purposes, lets say Sybill is one. So what she, and other true Seers do, is peer into the fabric of What Is. The nuance and texture of probability. Where an event will lead, given who all parties involved are, and what choices they are likely to make…they see into that. Its their gift,” Sirius said. “If you like…and I can see that you don’t like, not at all…”  
“I think I understand,” Hermione said slowly, but fighting to retain her skeptical frown though her eyes had softened. “Entertaining the idea that Trelawney or anyone can see into the future…they see likely probabilities, or insight into the nature of an event.”  
“Right,” Sirius said.  
“Um, what does that mean, exactly?” Harry asked.  
“It means that Trelawney’s prophecy is just talking about the dynamic that you and Voldemort have. Neither of you will let each other live in peace. He tries to take your life, you undo all of his plans to rise and assume power. You constantly strike at and evade each other. Maybe you…just…rather leapt to the conclusion that you have to kill him? Just as he is convinced that he has to kill you to secure his power,” Hermione said.  
“I didn’t choose this!” Harry said.  
“No, but you do have choices,” Sirius said. “How we meet our challenges, doing so in courage, is how we choose freedom over defeat.”  
Harry absorbed this, and nodded.  
“I agree!” Hermione said. “You know that when we return, Voldemort will come after you. You can’t change that.”  
“But, you can choose how you go into it. And you can face him intent not to kill, but to live. Intention makes the difference,” Sirius said.  
Harry felt palpably how he had missed him. He felt so soothed by his words, calmed by his advice, and he could understand what Sirius meant, felt the words changing him like water weathering earth.  
He was doing this not to kill, but to live. Life. A life after Voldemort. Harry’s battered heart began to believe again.  
“Sirius, you did say that you would tell us where you’ve been since the Veil. So, what happened? Where were you?” Hermione asked.  
He waved his hand dismissively.  
“Forget about me. How did it happen? Dumbledore, how did he die?” Sirius asked.  
“Snape,” Harry answered, and added, “its all my fault, Sirius.”  
“Whatever happened, I’m sure that its not your fault, Harry. What do you mean, Snape? He was there, too? When it happened? Harry, did you see it?” Sirius asked.  
In his tone, in a certain, halting tone in his voice, Harry and Hermione could hear the young man Sirius had been when he joined the first Order of the Phoenix, full of idealistic fervor and trust for Dumbledore. So complete had his trust been that he had followed Dumbledore’s orders regarding how much to tell Harry in his fifth year, despite his natural instinct to tell Harry everything.  
Harry looked at Hermione. She instantly understood, and her starry brown eyes gave him strength as he began to tell Sirius about his sixth year: Malfoy, his lessons with Dumbledore, the cave, even about Sirius’s own brother, Regulus. At that part, Sirius, whose good looks generally recovered and he was groomed and in a good mood, look aged within seconds. His handsome features were as grave as that of a long forgotten king carved into the effigy on a coffin recovered from an archaeology site, and his eyes were ancient with unwanted knowledge.  
“Sirius,” Hermione said quietly, “did you have any indication that your brother had changed his mind about Voldemort, and that he was going to take such a drastic step?”  
Sirius nodded slowly. “He came to see me, and James. We offered him the same deal Snape got,” he said, and spat Snape’s name in seething, palpable hatred, “to go back on the inside for the Order, as a spy. He said that he had a plan of his own, but he was cagey about what it was. Always kept his own counsel, my brother. He was a lone wolf. It wasn’t like him, to join anything.”  
“He played Quidditch,” Harry blurted.  
A fond smile crept onto Sirius’s solemn, handsome face.  
“Seeker, like you. And like James. They respected each other-James always said Reg was a worthy opponent,” Sirius said.  
“Now, you know what his plan was. To get rid of the Horcrux. Sirius, your brother was very brave. He had no idea that he was helping us, but what he did makes things considerably easier for Harry,” Hermione said.  
“He was a hero,” Harry said.  
Sirius truly smiled. “I loved the little toe rag. So brilliant, and well behaved. The perfect son, Regulus. I was jealous of him, sometimes. Until I gave up trying to please Mother and Father. I never knew how hard it must have been for him to be the perfect one. At least he found the courage to strike out at Voldemort, the way he never could our parents. At the end…he found his courage,” he said.  
“We have the Horcrux. And now, we have the way to destroy it. If the basilisk fang dagger destroyed the bit of Voldemort that was in me, then it should do the same for the locket,” Harry said.  
Sirius nodded. “But, first, Harry, I owe you an explanation. Of why I’ve been gone, for over a year,” he said.  
“You couldn’t help it. I know you would have come back, if you could, Sirius,” Harry said.  
“We know you would never leave Harry’s side when he needed you,” Hermione added.  
“I was lost. I wandered this land, and it had its challenges for me. Monsters. Nasty creatures, traps in the trees, horrid dreams I could hardly tell from reality. But, I knew that I had to keep moving. The only thing in sight in the distance was the Green Tower,” Sirius said.  
“The Green Tower?” Harry asked.  
“You’ll see it in the distance. Something told me to keep moving, and to keep going towards it,” Sirius said.  
“And, when you got there?” Harry asked.  
“Morgana. She cured a wound I’d gotten from one of the beasts of the forest, made me whole,” Sirius said.  
“But, she drove you mad,” Harry pointed out.  
“If she hadn’t, I wouldn’t have been in the right place at the right time to help Hermione banish Voldemort’s soul fragment from you. There’s a design at work, here,” Sirius said.  
“Do you think Morgana wants Harry to come to the Green Tower?” Hermione said. “And, if so, do you think she can be trusted?”  
“I think that we all deserve answers. But, there’s no way in seven hells I want Harry to live a second of what I’ve endured for the last year. Bugger what Morgana wants-we’ll find our own way out of the Ether, without her help,” Sirius said.  
“Well, I expected nothing less of you, but you probably don’t want to insult her on her own island. I don’t know if she could possibly be the Morgana of tales of Camelot, but certainly its possible that she might have some sort of ears around,” Hermione said, and added, “and put on some clothes! You’ve been in that robe for ages, now.”  
“You sound like Molly,” Sirius grumbled, and Hermione scowled. However, he obeyed and went to dress.  
“Its really him,” Harry marveled, when he was gone.  
Hermione smiled. “Bathrobe, bad ideas, and philosophical musings and all. I missed the mad old codger,” she said.  
Harry laughed, and did something he had never done before: he kissed her cheek.  
“Sirius doesn’t seem to trust Morgana,” Hermione noted.  
“And you don’t seem to trust that she is who she says she is,” Harry said. “Do you think we can find our own way out of the Ether?”  
“I think we have to sort one thing at a time. We have to banish Voldemort’s soul from the locket. Time will tell about the rest. Now, help me set the table, the soup is ready,” Hermione said. She and Harry began to set the table, and her arm brushed his as they worked. Their eyes met, and Hermione fidgeted with her stray curls as she darted her eyes away.  
“Hermione…will you quit that?” Harry said. He sighed, and said, “look, I’m sorry. I won’t kiss you again. I was out of line.”  
“You weren’t. I mean, at the time…I wanted to kiss you, Harry. But, I don’t want to feel this way,” she said.  
“What way? Hermione, tell me how you feel,” Harry said, and refused to let her eyes break away from his.  
“I…I care about you more every day. And, I want to be sure that its real before I feel it too much,” Hermione said. “It doesn’t feel safe.”  
“You’re the bravest person I know,” Harry said.  
“Not when it comes to this. Not when it comes to you, Harry,” she confided quietly.  
She turned away, but Harry stood behind her, and rubbed her shoulder as she had his. He realized that she was crying, the way his mother had in the memory of her trying clumsily to renew her friendship with Snape. Harry felt a stab of shame in his stomach. He had hurt Hermione, the way Snape had hurt his mother. Every time he ignored and disregarded her had hurt, and had caused the distrust she felt now, the reluctance to fall in love with him that had led her to retreat so drastically after saying that she wanted to grow old with him and leave the world they knew behind forever.  
Gently, he caressed her shoulders, and tentatively kissed her hair. She turned around, and looked into his eyes. Her tears unmanned and shamed him, but conjured tenderness in him, too. He pulled Hermione into his arms.  
“This isn’t real,” she said.  
“Hermione…we’re real. We are,” Harry insisted, as she rested her head on his shoulder.  
She hugged him, and Harry felt relieved, as if he had awoken from a frightening nightmare to find that the horrors were gone with the night, and the world was a safe, kind place after all, welcoming him with morning light. Hermione lifted her head, and Harry wiped her tears, as Sirius had wiped his.  
“Merlin’s Toes…I’m such an easy crier!” Hermione laughed embarrassedly.  
“I cried first, remember,” Harry said.  
Hermione smiled gratefully.  
“It was different, when Cho cried. I didn’t know what to tell her, what she wanted me to say. I knew it was about Cedric, but…I didn’t know what to say, to make it better,” Harry said.  
“Harry…all you have to do is be there. To love is just to be there,” Hermione said.  
“I’m here, Hermione. I’m not going to leave you,” He promised, and held her close. 


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sirius has a talk with Harry; Hermione researches Morgana and thinks of her mother

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have Hector Xtravaganza, speaking of his mother Angie Xtravanza in the article "The Slap of Love" to thank for the phrase the slap of love, which Sirius uses, and William Ernest Henley to thank for the poem, "Invictus", that Hermione's mother read to her as a little girl, and that she recites to Harry on the beach. Thank you to all the artists who've inspired me with your work and your lives. 
> 
> Writing about Hermione is such fun! She is smart, sensitive, strong, clever, dynamic, and a wonderful heroine. Thanks for coming along on this journey with me.

Having Sirius as a travelling companion was quite a marked difference from Ron. After the deprivations of Azkaban and life as a fugitive, he wasn’t likely to complain about scanty food. He gave advice, such as suggesting that they wait a while and recover their strength before attempting another Banishing on the Horcrux his brother had retrieved. He was also adept at Transfiguration, and without prompting helped Hermione to create firewood, clothes, food, soap, etc. He was also a curious and imaginative wizard, who didn’t balk at the challenge of getting out of the Ether. He and Hermione poured over the books she had brought along, looking for any reference to interdimensional travel, Morgana, the Ether, and the realms of magic. Harry felt the weight of responsibility lifted from his chest and shoulders. He didn’t have to be the one to come up with the plan.  
“Hmm…if we could grow some quartz crystals, we could make this Time Key object, see, here, on page 250?” Hermione said, sitting cross legged in the window seat, as the song of distant birds and the roar of the waves drifted into the window.  
Sirius gave her an appreciative smirk, respect in his gray eyes.   
“Adventurous prospect, Mione,” he said.  
“Oh…is that something not a lot of wizards have tried?” she said.  
“In fact, it is,” Sirius said.  
Hermione looked bashful. “I didn’t know it was uncommon,” she said. “sometimes I just overshoot the mark.”  
“Me and my mates tried lots of obscure shit back in school. Just because no one else has the guts to try something, doesn’t mean you shouldn’t,” Sirius said, in that devil-may-care, blasé way of his that came easily and made everything sound easy.  
Hermione smiled warmly, and said, “Like turning yourselves into Animagi, for instance?”  
“Rather like that, yeah,” Sirius said offhandedly.  
“Brilliant, let’s try it then!” Hermione said.  
Harry knew that he should ask what a Time Key was, and that Hermione would gladly explain…but, for some reason he felt a sullen resistance against doing anything that he should do.   
“I’m going for a walk,” he announced, and went out to the beach.   
Before he left, he saw Sirius and Hermione exchange a look of concern, that he got a certain vindictive thrill from ignoring.  
Harry hadn’t spent much time at any real beaches. Every once in a while, Aunt Petunia and Piers Polkiss’s mother would organize a trip for Dudley and Piers to go to Fernham Great Pond, a small lake in Surrey. Harry would be begrudgingly brought along just so Mrs. Polkiss wasn’t suspicious, with the usual provisos: don’t ask for any snacks, don’t do anything odd, don’t talk about what went on at home. But, a lake wasn’t an ocean. The air coming off the rolling waves was fresh and stung keenly with the smell of salt, but it also carried the smell of marine life and a mysterious but palpable smell that Harry could only identify as life.  
Life. Sirius was alive…he had been so helpful and had made Harry feel safe, as he always did. Why would it bother him that his godfather and Hermione were both brilliant wizards who kept up an easygoing, friendly banter while trying to get them all off the sorceress’s island? That Hermione sounded vulnerable with Sirius, and let him encourage her, responding with enthusiasm and gratitude? Shouldn’t he be grateful to whatever gods may be that Sirius was alive and well, and that they had such an amiable collaborator? The bickering and tension with Ron had broken them apart, after all. Harry felt remote from the glittering ocean before him, lost in the storm within himself.  
“Harry!”   
He turned around to see Sirius approaching him. He smiled. The sight of his godfather always made him feel better.  
“What’s wrong? Is it your scar?” Sirius asked.  
“No. It hasn’t hurt since we’ve been here…and now that I’m not a Horcrux, I hope it never hurts again,” Harry said.  
“I hope so, too,” Sirius said earnestly. “if not Voldemort, then what’s worrying you?”  
“Its just…I wish I could be more useful. You and Hermione have all those ideas, and…I’m just not that kind of wizard. I have no bloody idea what a Time Key is!” Harry said.  
“A Time Key is an object…it opens other dimensions. Look, Harry, everyone has different strengths, you know? Transfiguration is a cake walk for me, but every potion I’ve ever tried to make quite literally blew up in my face,” Sirius said. “Thankfully, nothing toxic or permanently scarring.”  
Harry laughed. “Thanks, Sirius. Sometimes, I still feel like that stupid 11 year old kid who didn’t even know he was a wizard,” he confided.  
“That kid wasn’t stupid, he had been lied to all his life. That’s not your fault,” Sirius said.  
Harry smiled, and looked out at the glittering ocean.  
“Are you sure its just the Time Key, that upset you? Does Hermione have something to do with it?” Sirius asked.  
“Huh? What? No,” Harry insisted, but Sirius was wearing a bemused smile that told Harry he had already figured out too much to be dissuaded.  
Harry sighed. “So…we kissed, me and Hermione. But, she says she can’t trust that my feelings are real, with everything going on, and the way its making us lean on each other,” Harry said. “and, I guess, watching her with you…both of you going on about all this advanced interdimensional time travel stuff…I felt like she didn’t need me. She’s got more in common with you, you’re brilliant like her.”  
Sirius threw his head back, and laughed. Harry waited for him to be done, and when he was done laughing his godfather said, “Harry, I’m sorry, I hate to laugh, but…I’m old enough to be her father! I mean, she could bloody well be my daughter!”  
“I know its ridiculous…I just felt…” Harry said.  
“Jealous?” Sirius suggested. “I’ve always thought jealousy was a very misleading emotion. What you’re feeling is that you want to be closer to someone. Maybe the third person is a catalyst, but they’re just that. They haven’t really got anything to do with the situation. You were already frustrated by wanting to be closer to the one you want, and knowing that you’re not close enough. So, you get angry at the obstacle.”  
“Have you ever felt like that, about someone?” Harry said.  
“Nope. I have this bad habit of going after the things I want,” Sirius said.  
“Oh, thanks, Sirius. That narrows it all down,” Harry said sarcastically.  
Sirius laughed. “I mean it. I don’t know if you’ve noticed, Harry, but impulse control isn’t my thing. If I wanted someone or something, I just went for it before anyone, even my better angels, such as they are, could tell me to take a few deep breaths, count to ten, and be reasonable,” he said. “But, that wasn’t always a good thing.”  
“Was it a good thing with Tonks?” Harry blurted, before he could stop himself.  
Sirius was surprised, but as usual converted his shock into his typical patrician composure.  
“You’d have to ask her,” he said, pointedly, and Harry sensed that was the end of that line of questioning. In a softer tone, Sirius added, “It took your mum and dad ages to go for it. They both had some illusions to get over.”  
“Was it because of Snape? The book I told you about, Snape’s old Potions book, it had these memories recorded in them, and when me and Hermione touched them, we saw that my mum and Snape had been best friends in school,” Harry said.  
“It was more complicated than that. He was a peculiar boy. He and Lily were close, but whenever they rowed and she tried to take a breather he’d follow her around, and just sort of watch her. What can I say, Harry? Tensions were always high between Gryffindor and Slytherin, and we were hotheaded, vain, spoiled, rowdy kids who were always going back and forth. If your dad or I saw Snape panting after Lily when she’d said she didn’t want to talk, we fancied we were defending her honor if we gave him a little warning,” Sirius said. “Of course, Lily was no one’s damsel, and she was quick to tell us to shove off. I guess in our own way, we were like you and your friends, with Dumbledore’s Army: we knew there was a war out there, and we were fighting our own version of it.”  
Harry thought about it…he didn’t entirely agree. He and his friends hadn’t targeted anyone else, they just wanted to learn to defend themselves if anything happened. But, he did know what it was like to be suspicious of Slytherin students and class them all as budding Death Eaters.   
“So, what seems to be the obstacle with you and Hermione?” Sirius said. “You seem so close.”  
“I…I got things so mixed up, Sirius,” Harry admitted, and sat down on the sand.  
Sirius sat beside him, and put his arm around Harry. He gave his godson a sympathetic look, and Harry continued,  
“You know Ron’s little sister, Ginny?”   
Sirius nodded. “Nice little girl. Not a bit squeamish. She used to love feeding mice to Buckbeak,” he said.  
“I never knew that,” Harry said.   
There was so much he hadn’t asked either Ginny or Hermione. Why was he so horrible at getting to know girls? They were people. It was perfectly acceptable to ask them questions about what they like and how they feel…he just never seemed able to do so.  
“Anyway,” Harry went on, “So, we sort of um…dated. I mean, we never went on any dates. Mostly, we talked about English Premier League Quidditch, and snogged.”  
“Sounds age appropriate. Nothing’s deep when you’re 16,” Sirius said, with a shrug.  
“But, how can you want to kiss someone so badly but not really know what else to do or talk about around them?” Harry asked.  
Sirius laughed again. “That’s all totally normal,” Sirius said.  
“Really?” Harry asked.  
“Really,” Sirius asked. “its easy to mix up attraction and liking someone in a deeper way. Its not a bad thing, as long as neither of you expect anything deeper. Did one of you expect anything deeper?”  
“I don’t know, really. I broke up with Ginny because…I didn’t want Voldemort to target her. The way he did you. He hurts the people who are closest to me,” Harry said.  
“But, Hermione’s here, and it doesn’t seem she’s left your side since the two of you took it upon yourselves to hunt bits of Voldemort’s soul scattered hither and yon. I’ll save you the parental lecture about that, I haven’t earned the right,” Sirius said. “But, I will say that the kind of devotion it takes to follow someone to the edge of the earth and beyond is rare, beyond beautiful, and damn near impossible to find in other human beings, no matter how much we want it to be there. And when it is there, most people would sacrifice anything else they had to give than to give that person up.”  
Harry took this in, and then said, “When Ron left, things changed with me and Hermione. I knew they fancied each other, even though they were both too pigheaded to admit it. I was afraid of what would happen if they dated, and it didn’t work out, if we would all still be friends…but, when he left…it was just me and Hermione, and…”  
“Perhaps you shouldn’t say any more-I used to change your diapers, after all, and Hermione is too nice a girl to be kissed and told about,” Sirius said hintingly.  
“No, it wasn’t like that! I mean, sometimes we were both too frustrated and sad to say anything, but, then there were these moments…when it was like we were the only people on earth. And I feel it now: how much I trust her, how much I care about her,” Harry said. “But, its too late, now.”  
“Why? Why would it be too late?” Sirius asked.  
“She thinks that she’s not my type. She says I like…Quidditch Chicks,” Harry said.  
“Ouch,” Sirius said.   
“I’m not some shallow jerk who likes girls on broomsticks, and doesn’t care about their personalities,” Harry said. “But, Hermione doesn’t trust me.”  
Sirius sighed. “Look, Harry, I don’t want to generalize, but Hermione reminds me so much of your mum. She has the biggest heart, a good head on her shoulders, and she’s brilliant, but don’t mistake confidence for stoicism. People who know their worth are sometimes quite vulnerable and slow to place their hearts with another, because its so rare they feel appreciated by anyone in the first place,” he said.  
“I never meant to overlook Hermione. Sometimes…we disagree about how to go about things. And I feel like she’s holding me back, or hovering. Ginny wasn’t like that,” Harry said.  
“Then you have to ask yourself how much she really cared,” Sirius said brusquely.  
Harry was surprised. After all, the Weasleys were his relatives, and they had all lived at the Order’s headquarters, his home at Grimmauld Place. He had tended the Weasley kids when Arthur was in the hospital after being attacked by Nagini, and despite his parenting disagreements with Molly, he had always seemed to like the children very much.  
“Don’t misunderstand me, I’m sure she cares. But, I think any girl from our world would have a hard time not being a little…overimpressed by you. We’ve got one sport, one popular rock and roll band, and we live in secret-there aren’t many teen idols or heartthrobs in our world. There’s no Hollywood, you know?,” Sirius said. “fame among us comes from being a powerful wizard who’s done great things, Harry, and you were-”  
“Famous before I could even walk and talk,” Harry interrupted resentfully, reciting the tired old line. “Yeah, I know.”  
“Wears a bit thin, yeah?” Sirius said sympathetically. “Think of it this way: to the Pureblood girls you go to school with, you’re the Prince William of the Wizarding World. And I’m sure that poor sod’s having just as hard a time finding a girl at school who likes him just for his heart as you are at Hogwarts.”  
“Well, he goes to Eton, so yeah, I’m sure he’s having a hard time finding any girls, at all, at school,” Harry said.   
Sirius laughed, and mussed Harrys already perpetually messy hair.  
“Hermione’s not like that,” Harry said.  
“Yeah, which is an advantage, I’m sure. She doesn’t get off on the fact that you’re in danger. Harry, I think she’s scared that one of these days, one of these people trying to kill you every term is actually going to succeed. But, she carries on being your best friend, in the thick of the fray, by your side, going into the fire with you,” Sirius said. “If I’d met a girl like Hermione, I wouldn’t have been in a long-running, one-sided love affair with a motorbike for most of my life.”  
Harry laughed, and said, “Come on, what about Tonks?”  
“She’s a darling girl. But, I shouldn’t have…she’s too young…she’s got her career…We’re cousins, for Christ’s sake-her mother would have my bollocks on a maypole if she knew,” Sirius said.   
“Why would I get angry at Hermione, or push her away, for being scared for me?” Harry asked.  
“Why did I get stroppy with you when you were trying to stop me from getting myself thrown back into Azkaban by visiting you up at school?” Sirius asked.   
Harry looked him in his eyes, and saw chagrin. He had just refused to think about that incident between them, as much as it had hurt. But, now he saw a silent apology in Sirius’s eyes.  
He answered his own question, saying, “When you’re not wanted at home, you don’t have the slightest concept of what it means to be protected by someone who loves you. It feels like a bloody straight jacket, or rejection. The person who really loves us isn’t the person who pours us another drink-it’s the one who takes the keys from our hands before we drive home drunk. And it’s a brave thing to do, to give someone the slap of love, like that, when you know they won’t understand it.”  
“The slap of love,” Harry repeated.   
Sirius smiled. “I think you understand,” he said.  
“How do I show Hermione that she can trust me?” Harry said.  
“Has she asked you to do anything in particular?” Sirius asked.  
“Just be there,” Harry said.  
“So, be there,” Sirius said.  
They walked back to the house, as the sky was turning a soft purple twilight. Sirius made dinner, while Hermione and Harry sat on the couch, reading about Time Keys.  
“I’ve started growing crystal specimens. Look,” Hermione said, pointing to a plant tray where tiny quartz crystals were growing.   
“And those are going to be Time Keys?” Harry asked.  
“One of them, the one that grows fastest, and strongest,” Hermione said. “I’m speeding up the process a bit-we have to get home. What if years have passed, Harry?”  
Harry rubbed her shoulders encouragingly, and Hermione smiled warmly and thankfully. He felt a slither of hope, an echo of the closeness he had felt to her lying under the starry sky of their ceiling, and as they built their house. The very walls of their house, everything in it, was built of the rare and true feelings she had for him. Although she was hesitant now, he only had to look around him to see the evidence of how she felt.  


After dinner, Hermione read a bit of Wuthering Heights out loud, which Sirius called an old favorite that reminded him of his childhood.  
“It was one of the first depictions of domestic violence in English literature,” Hermione pointed out.  
“Yes, that’s why,” Sirius quipped.   
They settled down to bed, Harry on the couch, Sirius curled up as a dog under the kitchen table (he insisted), and Hermione in the bed alone. She fell into deep spans of sleep, and then woke up gasping with an ache in her chest, from nightmares of a world fallen to Voldemort: the torture of those who opposed him, the genocide of people like her. She felt death like a peering bird perched on the headboard of her bed. After reading a collection of Edgar Allan Poe’s stories as a child, she’d had macabre nightmares about being buried alive, or sealed in a wall.  
“You know, allowing yourself to be afraid is the bravest thing anyone can do,” her mother had told her, as she rocked her back to sleep.  
“How is being afraid brave?” Hermione had asked, perplexed.  
“Hiding from your emotions is bad for you. When you know what you feel, you can turn it into another feeling,” Mrs. Granger had said, and recited a poem to her for the first time that Hermione had come to treasure:  
Out of the night that covers me,  
Black as the pit from pole to pole,  
I thank whatever gods may be  
For my unconquerable soul.

In the fell clutch of circumstance  
I have not winced nor cried aloud.  
Under the bludgeonings of chance  
My head is bloody, but unbowed.

Beyond this place of wrath and tears  
Looms but the Horror of the shade,  
And yet the menace of the years  
Finds and shall find me unafraid.

It matters not how strait the gate,  
How charged with punishments the scroll,  
I am the master of my fate,  
I am the captain of my soul”

Now, she sat in the dark, hugging her knees, reminding herself of these fortifying words, and in the theater of her mind rose the sound of her mother’s voice. She stilled the tears, and turned on the light by the bed. She continued the reading she had been doing when she went to bed, about the history of Morgana, the sorceress.   
Muggles knew her as Morgan Le Fay, the half sister of Arthur determined to ruin his kingdom, Camelot, even seducing her half brother to conceive his nemesis, Mordred. While that version of events had entertained Renaissance nobles in the royal courts of France and England, it was far from the truth. The history of Wizards recorded Morgana as a witch of great renown and mysterious provenance who was the student and lover of the great wizard, Merlin. Unlike Merlin, a documented Slytherin student of Hogwarts, it was unknown where Morgana had been educated in magic. What was known was that she was already well versed in it when she became Merlin’s apprentice, and she was a gifted Seer who was of special service to the king and queen whom Merlin served. Merlin and Morgana also served the ordinary citizens of early Britain in the capacity of healing ailments in early hospitals.

When they both disappeared, it was to Britain’s great loss. That was the story, as A History of Magic by Bathilda Bagshot recorded it. But, even the imminent Ms. Bagshot qualified that this was all legend and tradition. In truth, Morgana may very well have been a conflation of several figures, or an invention, like the alchemists Maria Prophetissima and Hermes Trismegistus. Why invent a student for Merlin? Perhaps giving him a female counterpart made him seem more trustworthy to Muggles…but, Muggle tales of her were decidedly unflattering. Like Marie Antoinette, Morgan Le Fay was used as a comfortably sexist scapegoat for why a formerly great society had fallen. The stories of her schemes were the Camelot equivalent of “Let them eat cake.”

Hermione took out a yellow legal pad and made notes. For all the slander of Morgan, the commonly recorded legend of Camelot ends with her sheltering a wounded Arthur, and sometimes an exiled Guinevere and Lancelot, on the island of Avalon, a faerie realm hidden in mist. Under the names Viviane or Niniane, she was also believed to have entrapped Merlin in a green bower in the similarly impenetrable magical realm, Broceliande. Could these be fanciful iterations of the Ether, hearsay spun into poems and romances to explain why the two greatest sorcerers Britain had ever known had disappeared, and where they had gone?

Hermione felt the same way she did in Ancient Runes and Arithmancy, like she was solving a riddle. She loved feeling mentally preoccupied, it kept her mind off Harry. He’d held her gaze in a way that made her shiver when she was explaining Time Keys to him. He had done that a few times, given her that piercing look with those smoldering emerald eyes that signaled he wanted to talk to her.

She honestly didn’t know what to say. She had very little experience with boys. She had been trying to avoid Cormac McLaggen for most of the duration of their “date” to Slughorn’s party, she felt comfortable arguing with Ron, and thought they both saw it as sort of fun. They had fought about matters great and small, but he had never just walked away and never come back. Even knowing that he was angry at her meant he was thinking about her…but, leaving was different. As to Viktor, he had been a little too intense for her at the time-he was 18, and she was 15. She had an inkling of what he wanted, and not just sex: total commitment, or at least the promise of it, but Hermione hadn’t felt like it was possible, like she was capable of something so serious that would take so much work at that age.

She hadn’t recognized at first that she liked Harry as more than a friend…she thought it was just friendly love and affection, the sweet, sharp, and refreshing blast of happiness she felt when she hugged him or kissed his cheek. After all, she considered most people quite dull or daft, and Harry was one of the few who was not. She liked him immensely for it. It felt like a victory that someone who had been as ill-treated, and had so many walls, like Harry, let her do so. She always tried to protect and help him, but, again, she thought it was just as a friend…then he had showed up to school looking more handsome, more serious, taller with defined features and a hint of sadness about his eyes that heightened their intense, lustrous color, and she had let slip that he was “more fanciable than ever.” Embarrassment had burned in her stomach like Firewhiskey, but she thought they had all gracefully forgotten what she had said. 

Hermione shut A History of Magic in frustration. She needed a walk by the sea, to clear her head, and headed out into the moonlight. The island was quite lovely. It reminded her of Jersey-the beaches were powdery soft, the water was warm. She marveled at the way the moonlight shone on the foam as the waves crashed and splayed on the pale sand, and she reveled in the breeze tickling her hair and her face. She felt a presence behind her, and figured it was Harry when she felt him spreading a blanket around her shoulders.

“Could you not sleep, either?” she asked.  
“I saw you walk out, didn’t want you out here alone,” Harry said. “Do you really think this is Morgana’s island?”  
“I’ve been researching, making notes and comparing legends,” Hermione said. “But, hopefully we’ll be out of the Ether before the opportunity to personally interview her presents itself.”  
Harry laughed, and said, “Yeah, hopefully. Although, if she really is holding Merlin hostage, maybe we could help the bloke out?”  
Hermione laughed, and said, “I don’t know…we’d have to answer to the way we use his name as a swear word! Price of fame, I suppose.”  
“Yeah, give it a few millenia, maybe we’ll all be saying, ‘By Gilderoy Lockhart’s smile’ or something,” Harry said.  
Hermione laughed, and they spent a while on making up epithetical oaths with Lockhart’s name and anatomy. Hermione laughed so hard she hiccoped and waved her hand for Harry to stop when he mentioned certain very personal parts of Lockhart’s anatomy as a swear word.  
When she calmed down, Harry was smiling at her as if trying to drink the sight of her.  
“You always laugh like that-as if you’re surprised that you’re so happy,” he said. “it makes me wish you laughed more.”  
“I laugh plenty! I actually love Shakespeare’s comedies! ‘Much Ado About Nothing,’ ‘As You Like It’. Oh, and Jane Austen’s novels are quite witty, they make me laugh. And my dad loves Monty Python, so I’ve seen ‘Monty Python and the Holy Grail’ and all the episodes of ‘The Flying Circus’ more times than I can count,” Hermione said, and got that feeling she often experienced that she should stop talking before someone got annoyed.   
When she looked at Harry, his eyes were cradling silver moonlight and drinking her words. He was listening to her!  
“I…didn’t get to watch too much TV, growing up,” Harry said. “the Dursleys…well, you know. They thought I’d come out normal if I was unhappy.”  
“Well, they were quite wrong. If they had accomplished their goal, you could have become an Obscurial,” Hermione said.  
“A…what?” Harry asked.  
“Someone who, through great trauma, has suppressed their magic. It wells up inside them, and becomes a volatile force that may explode at any time,” Hermione said.   
“So, you lose your magic, and then one day it builds up to the point it explodes?” Harry said.  
Hermione nodded.   
“I did, sort of…Aunt Marge,” Harry said.  
“The kind of self control that living in that house, hearing everything you are, and everything your parents were, insulted, and being denied and deprived, requires would make anyone angry. Self control is a fine line of knowing how we feel, and not hiding from it, but not letting our emotions control us,” Hermione said.  
“How do you do it, Mione? How do you stay in control?” Harry asked.  
“There’s this poem, that my mother told me, when I was a little girl. I think of it, a lot,” she said, and with a sad smile recited “Invictus” for Harry.  
“ ‘The master of my fate, the captain of my soul,’” He said.  
Hermione smiled, loving the way those beloved words sounded coming from him. She looked into his green, moonlight flecked eyes, and the ocean roared as the air between them began to feel like the seconds before a thunderstorm in summer.  
Harry leaned in, slowly, giving her a chance to pull away, or push him away. She realized that just as she had been avoiding him emotionally to protect herself, she had taught him to do the same in regards to her. How many people do we push away because we are afraid to be hurt by them, and making them just as wary of us, she wondered, as she closed her eyes, and felt Harry’s lips press against hers’.  
“Hermione!” she heard a voice cry from the trees. A female voice. Her mother’s voice!  
She peeled away from Harry, threw the blanket off her shoulders, and chased after the source of her mother’s cry. 


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione meets a Seelie knight as she looks for Harry; Harry has an epiphany on his search for Hermione

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As we know from the case of Lily and Snape, and Tonks and Remus, Patronuses can take a shape emblematic of the person a wizard is deeply in love with. I hope that this chapter leaves no room for doubt as to who Harry loves and what his feelings are. Any mention of Ginny is meant to represent him shedding an old skin, and realizing his true feelings. The function of the caladrius, a bird that heals, is also emblematic of the role he and Hermione will play in the Wizarding World when they return.   
> Thank you to everyone reading and enjoying the story! I hope you enjoy this chapter.

“Mum!” Hermione cried.   
She darted around, looking for her mother. She had heard her, clear as day, the voice of home, of pure and unconditional love. Her mother was here, she was going to take her home, she didn’t have to be strong anymore…  
But, something about that didn’t feel right. Hermione’s mind felt foggy, as if she was waking up in the morning and feeling around the nightstand beside her bed for something that should be there, but wasn’t… she knew, deep down that she wouldn’t find her mother, and this foggy feeling didn’t feel right, either.  
Hermione looked around at her surroundings. She was no longer on the beach with Harry, but in the forest. Slivers of moonlight saved the scene from total darkness. Harry! Sirius! She thought their names with a jolt: she had abandoned them for a dream, an illusion, a vague hope of home…  
‘Don’t beat yourself up. Its useless! Anyway, you didn’t imagine that voice. It must be one of Morgana’s tricks…but, is she trying to help us, or trap us? This magic is cruel,’ Hermione thought.   
Her attention was distracted by a sound that, with alarm, she recognized as an enraged animal, seeming to announce a charge with a guttural sound accompanied by the distinct flaring of nostrils.  
She looked over a little ways to her right, and saw the green skin of an ogre, nude, illuminated by moonlight. It raised its club, and a slender blonde young man in dirtied clothes was on the ground, fumbling for a weapon that eluded him.  
Hermione found that her wand, now her’s and Harry’s, was in her possession when she ran from the beach, and quickly drew it and pointed it.  
“Confundus!” she cried, aiming at the ogre, who, when hit with the spell, stumbled dizzily and then fell into the waiting growth of a gorge on the other side of a ravine. She ran over to the young man.  
“Are you all right?” she asked.  
He answered in a language that sounded French, but, though she vacationed in southern France with her parents and was confident enough in the language to order a lemon soda at a hotel bar, she did not recognize. Its cadence was difference, some words she could guess at, but their pronunciation was off. She looked at the young mans clothes, ruined though they were, and something about his tunic like, dirty white shirt had a medieval touch.   
‘Surely not,’ she thought. ‘but, if there is a Morgana, why not lost knights errant?’   
Could he be speaking Provencal, the language of troubadours and Arthurian romance, or Norman French, the royal tongue of England after the conquest? Had he been wandering this island since the Middle Ages?  
“Comprehendo Omnis Linguae,” Hermione cast on herself, and felt a feverish chill of a spell hitting her body. Now, she should be able to understand the knight and answer him in kind.  
“Do you understand me now?” he asked.  
“Yes, I just had to-” Hermione was about to explain, and then stopped. What, after all, would a medieval knight’s attitude be about witchcraft?  
“Cast an enchantment?” he asked knowingly.  
“Yes. That isn’t a problem, is it?” Hermione said assertively. “If it is, I must point out that magic just saved your life.”  
“Poor, unfortunate creature. I have known ogres, demoiselle, and that one was as maddened as if bitten by a mad dog. No creature is free on this island. Our very minds are enslaved by the mists of her magic,” said the dirty knight.   
“Morgana?” Hermione asked.  
“My people call her Morgaine,” he said. “what is your name, sorceress?”  
Hermione nearly laughed at being addressed as ‘Sorceress’-it sounded so grown up and mature, a good appellation for an older, seasoned witch who was an expert in her field, had a mysterious look in her eye and a stern expression, and wore tasteful velvet robes in dark colors, like Professors McGonagall, Vector and Sinistra. She didn’t think she could accurately be called a sorceress-she was too young, all she knew of magic was school magic from Hogwarts. ‘Sorceress’ sounded like an expert, and the Ether was teaching her how much she had to learn.   
“Hermione,” she said. “Its from Shakespeare,” she added.  
“Hermione of Shakespeare, how did you come to Morgaine’s Isle?” asked the knight.  
“I drove here, in a house. It’s rather complicated. What’s your name?” she asked.  
“Owain, of the Seelie,” he said. “I am a knight of the Faerie realms which lie beyond the ocean that borders this land.”  
“Seelie! Like, the Sidhe? Faeries? Oh, no, but that’s impossible! The Sidhe are ancient deities of Celtic Britain, stories about faeries are just bastardizations of Celtic lore, they never truly existed,” Hermione blurted.  
“I do not exist, do I?” the knight said bemusedly, and when he smirked he looked young, mirthful, and the angelic symmetry of his face shone through the dirt that covered him in dark splotches. He was beautiful, or would be, after a bath.   
“Well, clearly, you exist, but what I mean is that I was always taught that stories about Faeries were embellished myths, bowdlerized, misappropriating, skewered beyond the point of any recognizable truths! Then, admittedly, I came here,” Hermione said.  
“You are a long way from Shakespeare, no, my fair sorceress?” asked the knight.  
Hermione grimaced. They were going to have to clear up this Shakespeare thing, sooner or later.  
“I am a long way from home,” she admitted. “So, how is it that you speak French?”  
“It is the language of diplomacy between our worlds. We learn it, along with other accomplishments, in our training as Knights of the Blessed Faeries,” Owain said.  
“Are you a long way from home, too?” Hermione asked.  
“I am on a quest. My quest is to bring Morgaine’s Mirror back to my kingdom. The mirror shows one what their heart most desires, and my king is most desirous to possess it,” said Owain.  
“The Mirror of Erised!” Hermione said. “No, no, its not here, and it doesn’t belong to Morgaine! Well, perhaps, maybe once it did, but somehow or another it ended up at Hogwarts. Its broken. Its been gone for years. I’m sorry.”  
Owain’s handsome face looked stricken.   
“Impossible!” Owain said.  
“No, I assure you, I was there. Well, almost there. I was present that night, but not in the chamber where the mirror was destroyed. Either way, I know for sure that it is gone,” Hermione said.  
Owain’s dispirited anguish was palpable.  
“She will never love me,” he sighed, and sank to his knees.  
“Get up, you’ll only get more leaves and dirt and such all over your clothes, and you must know you’re quite filthy as it is! Besides, how did you expect to win Morgaine’s love by stealing from her?” Hermione said.  
“No, not the sorceress Morgaine! I am on a quest to prove my love to the lady Guendolen. She refused my favor, and honors Sir Gwion, instead. But, quite obviously, sorceress, she would favor me if I brought her as rare, elusive, and potently magical an object as Morgaine’s Mirror!” Owain said, in the feverish voice of a man who was convinced not only that he was in love, but that he was about to do something very impressive in the name of love, and surely it would work.  
Hermione folded her arms and gave Owain a skeptical look.  
“You said it was your king who wanted the mirror,” she pointed out.  
“Yes, yes…but, sorceress, surely you have knights in your kingdom, no? Is not every mission they execute for king and crown not truly in the name of their lady?” Owain said.  
“Knights in my ‘land’ are more likely to have been rock stars in the 60s than knights errant. And, we have a queen, actually,” Hermione said.  
“Recommend me to your mistress, the Queen of Albion, great sorceress Hermione of Shakespeare!” Owain proclaimed.  
“Hush,” Hermione said.  
“I shall speak at a more delicate volume, my fair sorceress,” he said.]  
“Thank you. Look, its only my opinion, but I just think that you’ve undertaken this quest for the wrong reasons altogether. Women don’t fall into men’s arms because they’ve been impressed by some gallant deed. Listening to a woman when they talk is a much more effective strategy to secure their respect for you than gallivanting off to some magical realm to find a piece of furniture,” Hermione said.  
“Oh, hard hearted sorceress! Is there no one in all the land of Shakespeare for whom you would undertake a quest for?” Owain appealed.  
Hermione was not often speechless, but she took a moment of deliberation to consider his words. She hadn’t realized that she was agreeing to search for the Horcruxes with Harry out of anything but a sense of duty and friendship. It was only when Ron left, she realized that maybe she had made a deeper choice. She hadn’t just chosen the cause or the quest, but the volatile, mysterious, damaged, but well-meaning boy at the heart of both of them, Harry a creature of opposite extremes, whose blind spots and prejudices lived beside an open heart and flexible mind-after all, he had changed his mind about her, and let her into his life, and always stood by her side as she had never left his.   
“Its not the same,” she said. “There are necessary quests, and endeavors of pride.”  
“Endeavors of pride,” Owain considered, hacking away at undergrowth with the sword that had failed him when facing off with the ogre. “Sorceress, you are wise, indeed!”  
“Look, I have to find Harry. I suppose you can come with me, but if any more trouble springs up, stay out of the way and let me handle it. I daresay magic is much more effective than a sword,” Hermione said.  
“Who is Harry?” Owain asked.  
That was a novelty. Everyone knew who Harry was in the Wizarding World, even if they didn’t realize upon first meeting him that they were talking to ‘The Harry Potter’. Even Hermione had encountered his name in textbooks before they met. However, Owain’s ignorance to who he was simplified matters.  
“He’s my best friend,” she answered. She recounted to Owain how the illusion of her mother’s voice had led her away from Harry, on the beach.  
“Our society, in the Seelie kingdom, has different castes. Some are gifted with the ability to cast enchantments, or see the future. I am of the warrior class. I know nothing of magic, so I hate to presume…” Owain said.  
“Owain, spit it out, please! I take it you’re going to suggest something?” Hermione asked.  
“If I may. I have heard that wizards are subtle, and quick to anger,” he said cautiously.  
“Well…I’m not exactly subtle. And, you can make a suggestion,” Hermione said.  
Owain exhaled deeply, and smiled gratefully. “Is there some way you may use your magics, Great Sorceress, to signal your companion?”  
Hermione’s face lit up, and an idea flared in her mind like a flame leaping onto the wick of a candle from a match.  
“Patronuses!! I can signal to Harry with my Patronus! If he sees it, and answers, we can find each other!” she said.  
“What, Sorceress, is a Patronus?” Owain asked.  
“It’s a protective emblem of what makes you feel the safest,” Hermione explained, and stopped walking. She grounded her stance, and took deep breaths, then looked at Owain and said, “Stand back, I’ll need room.”  
She gathered her memories…why did the bad ones rise so much more easily, quickly, and clearly than the good ones? She heard Malfoy snarling, “Mudblood!” when she was 12, and saw the lists of names of the missing and dead in the Daily Prophet, Hannah Abbott and Susan Bones crying in their hands and leaving the Great Hall upon the news of the murders of their relatives, and the Muggles suspended in air by the marching, hooded, torch bearing Death Eaters at the World Cup when she was 14. When she thought of the Wizarding World, the place she had fought so hard to make her home was clothed in a veil of menace.   
A good memory…a happy thought…she needed something unequivocally happy, and thought of sitting in a theater as the lights came back on, clapping as hard as she could, and turning to her parents and meeting their eyes with a delighted look in her’s as the performance of “Cats” ended. She had felt so happy and full of love for them, the performers onstage, and life itself sitting in that West End theatre, sandwiched between the two people who loved her most in the world. She had to get back to them, one day.   
“Expecto Patronum!” she cried, with all her might.   
She expected to see her favorite animal, an otter, to burst forth from her wand in pellucid form, but what came out instead was a majestic, phantasmagoric bird: a caladrius, like the one that had saved her life. 

Harry had been wandering the forest, shouting Hermione’s name till he was hoarse, and feeling more alone than ever, when he saw the white bird, glowing like an opal, alight on a tree before him. It was a caladrius, the bird that cured the sick. He looked into its eyes, and it hesitated, then flew away again.   
He knew that he had to follow it. He didn’t have a wand, for the first time since he was 11 years old. He had so treasured the definitive proof that he was a wizard, and the instrument to perform magic, and now he was without it…like he was without Ron, and Hermione. He’d never had to go without any of them before, his best friends, or his wand. He was determined not to feel sorry for himself…whatever he had or didn’t have, he still had plenty of urgent tasks to do before him, and the first was to follow the glowing sight of the caladrius.  
“Harry!”   
Harry stopped at the sound of Sirius’s voice.  
“Sirius!” he cried, and took in the sight of his godfather. He was a welcome sight, when Harry had been feeling so alone. Sirius folded Harry into a big hug.  
“I went looking for you, and Hermione, when you didn’t return after a while. Thank the gods you cast that Patronus,” Sirius said.   
“That wasn’t me, I think it was Hermione,” Harry said. “I can’t cast one back. I can’t do anything, she’s got the wand.”  
Sirius frowned thoughtfully, thinking of a solution to that. “Do you have the pieces of your old wand?”   
Harry produced them, and Sirius said, “Either of the pieces should suffice, as long as you concentrate. Signal until we get close enough to her. She knows your Patronus well, so it should be you who casts it.”  
“How can I use something that’s broken?” Harry asked.  
“As best you can, with all your heart,” Sirius said. “Wands aren’t as important as we make them, Harry. They’re conductors for the power and potential that’s already in us. If anything, the trust you feel towards your wand allows you to trust yourself. That was your first wand. You were just a boy, when you got it. Holding it should give you the confidence you need to focus.”  
Harry tried it. He knew that he needed a happy thought to produce the Patronus. He tried to think back to those peaceful days before Dumbledore’s murder, dating Ginny, living the life of a normal boy…but, as he searched his heart he knew he wasn’t that boy, anymore, if he’d ever been. He had been pretending, retreating, grasping at something he had always coveted and seen that others had…  
It wasn’t real. It was a thrill, a wish, but not real happiness. Anyway, he couldn’t wish, any longer, to be a normal boy, to have a happy childhood. Whether it had been happy or not, childhood was gone. He had grown up, survived the worst of it, and was an adult. He had to look clearly at the life ahead of him, and make a man’s choices, not a boy’s.   
He thought of creating the house, with Hermione, and the sound of her voice as she read the last few words of ‘Great Expectations’, and as she sang under her breath, ‘our house, is a very, very, very fine house.’ He’d felt truly at peace and happy alone with her, in the house they’d built of dreams. He didn’t have to yearn for that happiness to return, he knew that it lived in them.  
“Expecto Patronum!” Harry cried. Instead of his father’s stag, a caladrius, the very twin to Hermione’s new Patronus, erupted from his wand.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Sirius's sense of humor, we've gone up a rating:) He's a joy to write, as is putting an Arthurian/ medieval lore spin on Harry Potter. Thanks to everyone reading along:) I appreciate you all immensely.

Hermione was confused at first. It seemed that her caladrius Patronus had flown back to her. But, when it landed in front of her, she sensed that this was not her magic, but another’s. It had a cooler, more introspective quality of personality, but seethed with quiet passion, and at its core was something golden and pure, love of the most satisfyingly benevolent quality. Harry’s Patronus had changed. It was no longer a stag, representing his yearning for a father, but a caladrius, like her own had become, and it radiated of him: strong, good, but with a secret pain that drove him to do the right thing towards others. She also felt something imploring that seemed directed at Hermione herself, a wordless message.  
The realization of what this meant hit her in the stomach like a punch, and she felt tears prickle her eyes. She had been so wrong, so hard, so cold, so afraid to believe that he felt anything for her beyond friendship, that he could have deeper feelings than the shallow infatuations he’d felt for Cho and Ginny. She couldn’t believe that after the hardships she and Harry had seen and faced, the challenges and trials they had overcome, it was her fear of being rejected that had scared her into rejecting him. Sure, he’d been shallow when it came to girls before, but couldn’t people change, become more nuanced, empathetic, and mature versions of themselves? The losses and threats he had faced in the last year would mature anyone, and she had been so protective of herself, she hadn’t trusted his motives when he began telling her with every word, gesture, and touch, that he was in love with her.  
Now, his magic had unequivocally told her the unwavering truth once more. The color of moonlight, with graceful wings and the impression of knowing eyes…the caladrius was not just the double of her own, but a mirror into Harry’s heart. She could feel his love, and his magic, calling to her.  
“Shall we follow it, Sorceress of Shakespeare?” Owain said.  
They would really have to clear up this ‘Hermione of Shakespeare’ issue, she thought, but it wasn’t an urgent matter.  
“Yes!” she said, and they ran after the glistening silver bird.

Harry and Sirius hurried through the forest. Behind him, Harry heard Sirius fall to the ground and emit a stunned sound. Harry turned around, and saw that Sirius was caught round the ankle by lashing vines. There were more vines, crawling across the forest floor, slithering towards them as if animated by intelligence and malice.  
“It looks like Devil’s Snare,” Harry said.  
“Bugger! Then the only thing that will kill it is fire. How do we get it off without burning down the bloody forest?” Sirius said, yanking uselessly at the vines that bound him.  
That only maddened the plant further, and it sent sister vines to bind his other ankle, and arms. Harry looked on uselessly as the vines sailed and strung themselves around a thick, low branch of a tree, and pulled themselves up like the ropes of a theater curtain, veritably crucifying Sirius with gravity in the process.  
“Kinky plants! The fauna around here likes rough trade!” Sirius cried bemusedly, as he was hoisted.  
“Sirius, this isn’t funny!” Harry said.  
“No, its about as bleak as a Morrissey album, I agree, but don’t lose heart, Harry,” Sirius said.  
“I’m not going to set you on fire to get you down from there!” Harry said.  
“ ‘Some say the world will end in fire, some say it will end in ice,’” Sirius quoted. Harry hardly thought this was the time for poetry, but then the hint clicked.  
“Will ice kill Devil’s Snare?” Harry asked.  
“No, but it will give the naughty girl the chill blains for a bit! Take my wand!” Sirius said, and tossed it down. Being a Seeker for six years came in handy, and Harry caught if deftly.  
Ice…he realized that he didn’t know any ice charms! Hermione probably did…but, it was Hermione he was trying to find, he couldn’t rely on her expertise in this instance. He pictured nature shows he’d seen as a kid in the Muggle world, about life at the earth’s poles, ice sheets, glaciers, vanilla colored polar bears bounding across eternal snows, hunting seals and sea lions, dark gray waters whose surfaces were occasionally broken by the backs of gray-blue whales. ‘Ice’, he thought, and aimed.  
He sprayed the vines with ice, and gradually they became frozen, brittle, and black, and snapped. Sirius fell to the ground, but stood up and began dusting himself off without much fuss.  
“But, that wasn’t even a charm, or a spell! It worked! How?” Harry asked.  
Sirius gave an elegant shrug, and said, “Words are like wands-a tool. The magic is you, Harry.”  
Harry smiled. “So, basically, magic as we know it is just a bunch of rules that can be broken at any time? I don’t think we should tell Hermione-she’d kill us to keep this heresy a secret.”  
Sirius laughed, and said, “She’s got good instincts. And I think she’s more comfortable breaking rules than she realizes. You love her very much, don’t you?”  
“I do. How could I not know that until now?” Harry said.  
“Love is a hard thing to admit to or recognize when you don’t have much experience with it,” Sirius said. “and that’s my fault. I wish I had done things differently, Harry. I went wild when I found your parents dead. I didn’t think…when Hagrid wouldn’t give you to me, I felt suddenly and completely that all was lost. All that was left for me to do, the most useful thing I could do, would be to take revenge on the person who’d betrayed us all.”  
“I would have done the same thing,” Harry said.  
Sirius smiled sadly, regret in his eyes, and said, “Well, that’s because wizards are probably the most bloodthirsty race on earth. We can’t seem to stop killing each other. We have too much power, it makes us prideful, prone to rivalry, to test each other and annihilate each other at the slightest offense.”  
“What Pettigrew did wasn’t slight,” Harry argued. “and he deserved to die.”  
“Like Voldemort?” Sirius offered.  
“Yes!” Harry said vehemently.  
Sirius shook his head sadly, and said, “I don’t know if its these bloody tabloids, the kids at your school, or Albus, may he rest in peace…but you’ve had it in your head so long that you have to be the one to kill Voldemort. Harry, you’ve got to question things and think for yourself, like you did at school, teaching all those other kids Defense Against the Dark Arts against the Ministry’s wishes.”  
“What, I should try to see things from his point of view?” Harry said derisively.  
Sirius gave an exasperated sigh, more at himself, than at Harry, and said, “ ‘Course not! I’m not saying that there’s any reasoning with Voldemort. But, I know that revenge destroys. There’s a Buddhist saying, ‘when you set out for revenge, dig two graves’. That means one for you, one for the other bloke. Because, trust: its going to kill you, too. Maybe not physically, but it will steal your time, and kill your soul. I chose revenge over going to Dumbledore myself and putting my foot down, that no one was going to raise you but me. I chose Pettigrew, and my hatred for him, over my love for you, and I ended up rotting in the dark for it, for my choices.”  
“Sirius, no,” Harry said.  
Sirius grasped Harry by the shoulders, looked him in the eyes, and said, emphatically, “Yes. That’s what happened, Harry. I was young, just a bit older than you are now, and just as full of hatred and anger as you are, now. But, we have to break this cycle. I don’t know what’s going to happen when you face Voldemort- and trust, I know he’s coming for you. But whatever happens, when we end him, we have to do it in such a way that we can build a new world on a foundation of justice, not revenge. There has been too much revenge amongst wizards.”  
“Dumbledore said…it had to be me,” Harry said.  
“And, so maybe it has! But, Harry, the spirit in which you do it, in which we go forward afterwards! Justice, not revenge,” Sirius stressed.  
Harry wasn’t sure he understood, but the look in Sirius’s eyes was resolute, unshakeable, and passionate. Harry wanted to understand. He nodded gravely.  
“All right,” Sirius said, sounding reassured.  
“Blimey-you learned a lot when you were mad, eh?” Harry joked.  
Sirius smirked, and said, “There’s no greater teacher than madness. Come on, let’s catch up to that alerion.”  
“Alerion? I thought Hermione’s Patronus was a caladrius,” Harry said, as they began to follow the path before them that the twin Patronuses had guided them down.  
“Oh. Could be. I assumed it was an alerion, because you two are so in love,” Sirius said. “They come in pairs, you see, mate for life, and even die together: they plunge into the ocean and drown at the same time-its terribly romantic, isn’t it?”  
“A bit macabre for my tastes, Sirius,” Harry said, shaking his head in refutation.  
“Well, you saw where I grew up,” Sirius said, and gave another languid shrug.

Hermione heard the rustle of brush and the trod of footsteps, and drew her wand. Owain pulled his sword. Hermione grounded her stance, and prepared for whatever may come.  
“Hermione!” Harry said.  
“Harry!” she cried, lowering her wand, and running towards him.  
He opened his arms, and she threw her’s around him, holding him tight. He returned the embrace, and Hermione felt warmed from the inside out by love and joy.  
“Maybe this island isn’t so peaceful, after all,” Hermione said.  
“Don’t worry, we’ll find a way home,” Harry said.  
Hermione nodded, taking encouragement from Harry’s words. Home…did she even have one, anymore? She’d compelled her parents to sell all they owned, including the house where she grew up, and start a new life on another continent she had only seen in “Picnic at Hanging Rock.” Then there was Hogwarts, which was now a Death Eater fortress. Was home the little sanctuary of dreams she’d shared with Harry, or a place that she hadn’t found, yet?  
Harry caressed her shoulders, and wordlessly coaxed her gaze to hold his. His green eyes caught the moonlight that fell between the boughs and branches of the trees. Gradually she forgot not only everything she was worrying about, but the sight of Sirius, Owain, everyone and everything else faded compared to Harry. As she stared into the depths of his green eyes they seemed to impart to her some measure of his strength of heart and belief in them. Most importantly, they were full of love.  
She tilted her head, slowly bridged the distance between them, and kissed him. It felt as if it had happened every day of her life for a million years, not just twice.  
“Ah, this is Harry?” Owain asked.  
As she and Harry pulled away slowly, air and space sliding back in unobtrusively between their bodies, she said, “Yes, this is Harry.”  
“If you are the paramour of the Sorceress of Shakespeare, then I am at your command,” Owain said, with a graceful bow to Harry.  
“Pardon?” Harry said, frowning confusedly.  
“Owain is a Seelie Knight, one of the Sidhe,” Hermione explained.  
“Who are the She?” Harry asked, pronouncing it without the slight accented Gaelic emphasis that Hermione had.  
With a rueful smile and a clap on Harry’s shoulder, Sirius explained, “The Fair Folk. An ancient race of magical beings so powerful, they were once thought to be gods. They live in realms that can’t be accessed without their favor. Surely you’ve heard stories of Muggles who danced with them or were kidnapped by them, and spent hundreds of years that seemed to only last an afternoon or night in their realm.”  
“Maybe…I think so,” Harry said, sounding uneasy and a tad frustrated.  
Hermione felt a pang of sympathy. They were both feeling out the magical world and learning as they went along, but she knew that Harry had conflated the wish to know more with a wish for a guiding guardian to explain it all to him. He’d fixed upon Ron and Dumbledore as those figures, and both had disappointed him. Disappointments like that could change a person-but, when she looked into his eyes she saw the same unabashedly open heart as the little boy she had first met, whom she could still envision as clear as day in her mind’s eye.  
“Its all right-most wizards can go their whole lives with no indication that the Fair Folk are more than a myth, let alone meeting one. Myths have been coming to life, as of late-and they’re rough magic, indeed,” Sirius said.  
“Yeah, this island is trying to kill us. Hermione, did you hear that voice again, when you were in the forest alone?” Harry asked.  
“No. It was my mum’s voice…but I knew, deep down, that it wasn’t real, and I managed to fight it off,” she said. “Harry, there seems to be a design to the things we’ve been facing, since we came to the Ether. As if we are being tested.”  
“What, like the Tri Wizard Tournament?” Harry asked.  
“Yes! A test of our mettle, as wizards. Our strength of mind and character,” Hermione said.  
“Yes, that makes sense. I can’t speak for you two, but everything this island’s thrown my way has only made things clearer for me,” Sirius said.  
“Precisely! Morgana drove you mad, Sirius-well, there are myths the world over of figures like Cu Chullain and Hercules, and even Merlin who lost their wits for a bit…but after, they were considered stronger, and wiser, or attained some sort of new gift or deeper wisdom,” Hermione said. “When you got your senses back, you were able to banish Voldemort’s soul from Harry.”  
“Couldn’t have done it without you giving me Voldemort’s proper name, and we’ve still got Reggie’s locket to do,” Sirius said, momentarily pulling the Horcrux from the pocket of his waistcoat to show them it was in his possession.  
“Yes, but we know what to do, now! And that’s down to you! Morgana’s madness put you in the right place at the right time, with knowledge of what to do when the time came. And Harry, there’s our journey. I have a few thoughts about it,” she said.  
“What sort of thoughts?” Harry asked.  
“Well, for one, each of our challenges has had a corresponding element: the rain and the flood was water, the storm was air, and the fruit and getting lost on the island was earth,” Hermione said.  
“What about fire?” Harry asked.  
“The Devil’s Snare!” Sirius said.  
“You two ran into Devil’s Snare? Its only good luck that you didn’t start a forest fire!” Hermione said.  
“That’s because we used ice, instead of fire, to get out of it,” Harry said.  
“Then, if I may be so bold, Lady Shakespeare, the challenge in this case seems to be to know when to use fire, and when to hold one’s fire,” said Owain.  
“Well spotted, Owain!” Hermione said. “We’ve also faced, and overcome, both inconvenient truths, and temptation, corresponding to the alchemical concepts of eida and eidola.”  
“Erm, what and who?” Harry asked.  
“I know, they sound like twin sisters,” Sirius said, and added, “Eida is an idea which is alive-inspiration, those eureka moments of sudden epiphany. Eidola is…fancy. Idle thoughts, that don’t go very deep.”  
“My eidola is… that sometimes, I want to go home. I don’t like to think of it, but sometimes, I got so sick of it all. All the hatred and danger in the Wizarding World,” Hermione said. “When I heard my mother’s voice, I faced the temptation I always feel a little bit, to just chuck it all, and go back to a normal school, and go to Oxford to study feminist literature, or Jacobean theater, something harmless.”  
Harry’s green eyes widened. “I never knew that,” he said.  
“Well, I never let it show,” Hermione said.  
“So, what kept you at Hogwarts all those years?” Harry said.  
“I love magic! It’s apart of me, and I can’t give up on it. I know there are flaws, injustices, and abuses in the Wizarding World. But, I know that I’m apart of the Wizarding World just as much as the people who do harm, I deserve a place there, and I can be apart of changes for the better. I want to stay, and fight for our world, instead of giving up on it. So, that’s my eida and eidola,” she said.  
Harry looked at her with love, awe, and respect, and then realized that Owain, Sirius, and Hermione were waiting on him to share, too. He looked only at Hermione, and said,  
“Hermione…you know what my eidola was. Love isn’t what I thought it was. Love isn’t one thing. It has everything in it. You can feel safe with someone, you can like them, you can want them, you can care about them…but just having one of those things, and not all of them isn’t the kind of love that I know we both feel for each other. I think that sort of love has all the rest of those things in it. Its that big. It can fit everything inside it, and it does-kind of like your little purple bag. When I encouraged you to eat that fruit, you almost died because I thought…” Harry hesitated, with a guilty expression on his face.  
“Go on,” Hermione encouraged gently.  
“I thought-well, I used to think- that there were times when you got in my way. But the whole time, every time, you were right where we needed you to be, trying to stop me from leading us all into danger. You’re always right where I need you, Hermione. Until tonight, and its…the first time I’ve felt this alone since I’ve met you. I never want to feel that, again,” Harry said. “But, I had to face it.” He concluded with a sigh, as if relieved that the trial of being apart from Hermione was over. Hermione took his hand.  
“Then it seems you are Morgaine’s chosen,” Owain said.  
“What?” Harry asked. Hermione looked to Sirius, but this one seemed to mystify even him.  
“Tell us what you mean, Owain,” Hermione asked, turning to Owain, but still grasping Harry’s hand.  
“There is a legend, which we often hear in song in the Faerie lands, that when Morgaine and Merlin left Britain, they chose a sorceress and wizard to take their place, and lead a new age. But, of course, things happen rather out of time and place, in the realm of humans. For centuries, wizards searched for Morgaine’s chosen, but they gave up as time wore on. It is only now, that you two were meant to be born,” Owain said.  
“Look, mate, I don’t doubt your word, but if I hear one more prophecy, I’m going to scream. I can’t see that they do anything but ruin people’s lives,” Harry said.  
“You know how I feel about divination, Harry. So sadly, Owen, I must concur with Harry, that I don’t find that very likely, either,” Hermione said.  
“Sorceress, careful how you speak of Morgaine’s magic. We are never out of her presence. Everything that surrounds, us, the trees and the roots of them beneath the earth, the earth itself, is an eye and ear of the sorceress, an expression of her mind,” Owain warned.  
“Given that she tied me up, I’d say she’s got a dirty mind,” Sirius quipped….and then, he disappeared, leaving only empty air where he stood.  
Hermione looked at the empty place where he had stood only moments before in silent alarm.  
“Sirius!” Harry cried, and his godfather’s name had barely died on his lips when he realized that the hand that had been holding Hermione’s was empty. She, too was gone.


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Morgana explains herself to Hermione; Harry begins the journey to the Green Tower

“They must have been taken to Morgaine’s keep, the Green Tower. We must journey there,” Owain said.  
“Hold onto my arm, we’ll Apparate there,” Harry said.  
Owain took hold of his arm, and Harry thought, ‘Green Tower’ with all the concentration that he was capable of. When he opened his eyes, he was in the same spot in the forest, he hadn’t moved at all.  
“We’re supposed to have just…popped right there,” Harry said, mystified.  
“Morgaine sets the terms here. It is her realm. The magics you used in your world may or may not answer your call,” Owain said.  
They began walking, and Harry settled in for a journey.

The walls of the chamber in Morgana’s Green Tower were covered in vines, which sprouted from cracks in the ancient stones. They wound into each other, in green knots that reminded Hermione of folktales in which twin vines grew entwined on the graves of true lovers. The smell of the flowers’ perfumes, pollen, water, and green life filled the chamber. The bed had a red velvet canopy, and there were red velvet stools and armchairs about the room, as well as a large, gold framed mirror. Hermione wished it was the Mirror of Erised. That would make things simple. She would shrink charm the mirror, put it in her purse, jump out the window after putting a ‘Floating Charm’ on herself to hit the ground safely, and make it back to her friends no matter what she had to do or kill or fight or survive in Morgana’s forest. Owain could have the object of his quest, and she, Harry, and Sirius could go home.  
But, the mirror was not the one Harry had broken to defeat Quirrel in first year, and Hermione had tried removing the vines from the window, but they were more obstinate than chains or bars. There was no way out of this room.  
She heard footsteps on the stairs behind the door, and readied her wand. The door opened, revealing a tall, fair woman wearing dark, simple robes and a silver necklace locket on a long chain, red hair the color of a fire in the hills blazing hungrily on the horizon , and….Hermione was not prepared to see eyes just like Harry’s, wide, green, with a piercing expression of presence, curiosity, and acceptance, lustrous as emeralds.  
She fought the false sense of instant kinship those eyes made her feel. This island was full of tricks.  
“Will you not wear the fresh clothes the Tower has provided you, my lady?” the woman asked, in a mild and gentle voice with a slight French accent.  
“I’m no lady,” Hermione snapped. “I’m just a girl from Elgin Crescent who wants to go home! I have a lot to fix there. Things are so broken, and Harry and I are stuck here, playing your twisted games. Are you trying to break us? Who are you to test us? I’m not going to stay here like the Lady of jolly Shallot while there’s a war, that all our friends and family are fighting!”  
“Admirable,” the woman noted calmly. “But, how can you fight if you are not tested? Some swords break at their first strike. Then, they must be forged again.”  
“Oh, that’s pithy,” Hermione said scornfully. “You are Morgana, aren’t you? Why? Why after centuries of neglect do you make your presence known, now, and why have you fixated upon me and Harry?”  
Morgana smiled calmly. Hermione found it smug…but, deep down she knew that it was a childish feeling, like being mad at your mother and being even madder that she doesn’t seem to be angry at you in return. But it was that placid, patient, ‘I know better than you, you just don’t know it’ expression adults struck that was precisely what was infuriating. Morgana was wearing it now, as if she was Hermione’s mother or a Hogwarts professor, not the most renowned and infamous sorcerous in the history of Britain, known by name even to Muggles.  
“You two are not the only ones who have been chosen for a purpose,” Morgana said enigmatically.  
“We are certainly the only ones you kidnapped!” Hermione said.  
“You came to the island. You were called by the Tower. That is the magic of the Tower. It is the promise I made to Merlin: when a sorceress and wizard worthy to replace us were born in Britain, they would come to this place,” Morgana said.  
“No!” Hermione said heatedly. “Me and Harry are not staying here! We have to go home.”  
“Hermione, child, listen to me,” Morgana said, looking deeply into Hermione’s eyes with her eyes so much like Harry’s.  
Hermione felt stricken, pierced in her heart and in her gut. It wasn’t a curse or any sort of magic…it was just that her eyes were just like Harry’s when he said, “You do believe me, don’t you? That I didn’t put my name in the Goblet of Fire?” Hermione felt compelled to listen.  
“I did not realize how the magics would work, when I created this island and this tower,” Morgana said. “I have come to understand, over the years.”  
“Do you want me and Harry to take over for you and Merlin in exile to this place, so that you can finally leave after all these years? Yes, or no?” Hermione asked firmly.  
“Merlin left me centuries ago. I was arrogant to think that I had utterly surpassed him in the craft, and that he had none left of his own. Where there is will, there is magic, always,” Morgana said, with regret that sounded real, to Hermione. “and it is not on this island, where you will finish our work-it is in Britain.”  
“We have enough to be getting on with, without tying up your loose ends,” Hermione said.  
“Our ends are the same,” Morgana said.  
“Only if you want Voldemort dead as much as me and Harry do,” Hermione said.  
“Voldemort is what we made him. A creature of the chaos we caused, when we failed our world,” Morgana said. “Please, allow me to tell you a story that began with me, and is the story of you, of your Harry, of Voldemort, his enemy, the story of us all.”  
“How long will this take?” Hermione asked.  
“You have turned time, but it does not answer to you,” Morgana said.  
Hermione suppressed a gasp. How could she know about the Time Turner Hermione owned when she was 14?  
Morgana smirked.  
“I know all of us, child. Now, listen,” Morgana said.  
Hermione folded her arms. The least she could do in a show of dignity was to let Morgana know that she was listening to her most unwillingly.  
“I lived on an island, off the coast of Brittany, as a girl,” Morgana said. “the women there were priestesses, in the days of Rome, and before. When I was a girl, women were priestesses. My mother was the greatest of them, a woman of renown and independence. I was expected and assumed to be just like her. That would have been a good, easy life, for me, especially since I did not want to marry. None of the fishermen’s sons appealed to me. I felt more love for my garden, its plants, and the dragonflies and butterflies that visited it. I felt more passion and curiosity for the ocean. I could wonder for hours, what was beyond the ocean. When singers at fairs sang of the King Arcturus’s-King Arthur, to you- kingdom, I wanted to see for myself if it was truly so grand and full of wise people. The brave knights and their deeds, the ogres and invaders they had slain, that was a bit boring…but, there were supposed to be wisemen there, too, and those I wanted to see. Put to it, I could have taken the wisdom and done without the wisemen. So, I went.”  
She said all this with a little wave of her hand, and archetypal Gallic understatement.  
“What happened when you arrived at Camelot?” Hermione asked.  
“The court was very welcoming to strangers. Many people travelled from far to deliver prophecies and show off marvels they had found or invented, to entertain,” Morgana said.  
“What did you show them?” Hermione asked.  
“Nothing. I looked into Merlin’s eyes, which were the very color of water, always changing, and said, ‘You will be my master,’” Morgana said. “It came to me in a moment, you see. Not a prophecy, just a truth I did not know before, coming to me at once, as quickly as a child is conceived in a peak of passion, you see.”  
Hermione blushed, and Morgana smirked.  
“And, it was so. I don’t know why he agreed. As he taught me his magics, he would ask me, from time to time, ‘Well, what else, then?’ as if the first words I said to him were a conversation that began there, but did not end, after. And, I would tell him what came to me: ‘We will have a son; his descendants will be learned wizards, murderers, heroes, and madmen. Because you are immortal, Sir, you will watch all of this, your heart will break, and it will kill your soul,’” Morgana said.  
“And, did you? Have a son?” Hermione asked.  
“Auberon. He resented us. His father’s legend was a heavy burden. He never felt worthy. He had many gifts, all of them spoiled by his bitter heart, and he used them to wage a war that destroyed our kingdom. Our king died, our queen was disgraced, the Knighthood broken, and wizards were all smeared by our son’s acts of evil. It was then that wizards were considered to be in league with the devil, hunted, drowned, hung…” Morgana said, the sadness palpable in her voice. “It was then that I took Merlin, my master, my lover, my only love, to this place, where he could heal. What was left of the knights went on quests to find us. Some did. Then, they came no more. For a time, we were happy. But, Merlin is a restless man. He cannot be held.”  
“Where is he, now?” Hermione asked.  
“He is in that mirror. But, he is not here,” Morgana said. “That is a different story, child. Stay with me.”  
Hermione frowned. She really hated this elliptical, drawn out way of delivering information, but she wanted the story, so she had to slog through Morgana’s telling of it.  
“Auberon’s descendants… what became of them?” Hermione asked.  
“They became all I had seen, and more. They took many different names, and they are scattered. We failed to raise a happy boy, and Auberon, when he had a son of his own, was a cruel father. His poison haunts our line, and haunts our world. Now, of his male descendants, there are only two. Two who oppose each other, like two sides of the same soul who want control of the same destiny, and fight like dogs over a bone, two who cannot let each other live,” Morgana said.  
“Harry…and Tom Riddle. Are they both descended from you, and Merlin? Are they Auberon’s sons?” Hermione gasped.  
“You must return, and you shall begin to end this at Godric’s Hollow,” Morgana said.  
“Why there? Why the place where Harry’s parents died?” Hermione asked.  
“The child that does not feel the love of the village will burn it down, to feel its warmth. Tom Riddle has inherited my son’s bitter heart. Harry…he has the heart that our world will need to heal from this war,” Morgana said. “But, I had to test his heart.”  
“Oh, your hand was forced, was it? You had to put us through Hell?” Hermione said.  
“Yes,” Morgana said. “he had to learn his heart. Do you not see the change in him?”  
Hermione thought of the glowing caladrius Patronus, that had carried Harry’s love to her like a secret message. She had never even allowed herself to suspect such feelings, probably because the likelihood of rejection, even unintentional, was so high. It wasn’t just his seeming preference for “Quidditch chicks”…after Sirius’s death, Harry refused to speak openly of his pain while beneath the surface, all the desires of his heart conflated: for a home, for normalcy, for a family, for a romantic relationship. They all landed on the Weasleys.  
He began to chat with Mr. and Mrs. Weasley, as if he was catching up with his own parents while on holiday, more than before, and his gaze fell on Ginny as an object of desire when he had barely noticed her even as a friend, before, as if latently wishing to marry into the Weasley family, like Fleur. Surely he had noticed how young his parents were in their wedding photos, and heard that they began dating in school, and latently wished to settle down and have a family of his own, and soon, so that he wouldn’t be alone after Hogwarts. It wasn’t a calculated move, more like grief and desperation driving him like an Imperius Curse into actions that were not what he would have done if not under its goad.  
When he wouldn’t take Hermione’s word on the dangers of the Half Blood Prince, she took it as another sign of him pulling away, from that trust they had shared when they rescued Sirius, prepared for the Tri Wizard Tournament, and formed the D.A., into a new life of hiding behind the family that had been so kind to him, for reassurance.  
Only when she looked at the caladrius did she realize that this had broken her heart…she knew from the way she felt her heart heal.  
“The journey into a man’s own heart can drive him mad. It can kill his soul…if his truths are not the same as his dreams. If Harry can face the tests of this island, then he is ready to face his brother in battle, and redeem Auberon’s line,” Morgana said. “Harry’s strength is his heart, so we had to bring his heart back to purity.”  
“I suppose I can understand that, but still, these challenges have been cruel,” Hermione said.  
“Pardon me for my cruelty,” Morgana said. “One day, perhaps, you will thank me for it.”  
“I doubt that,” Hermione said.  
“Begin to end the journey at Godric’s Hollow,” Morgana said, as the door burst open. Sirius was on the other end.  
“Sirius!” Hermione said.  
“Ah, you found us. Did the Tower aid or hinder your quest?” Morgana asked mildly.  
“Never you mind! Hermione, come with me,” Sirius said, and held out his hand to her.  
“There is no need for you to rescue the damsel. You will all return to your proper place, when Harry arrives,” Morgana said, and gestured to the mirror. “the mirror will take you home.”


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry faces his most dire challenge yet: a world where Hermione doesn't exist. He realizes how much she has contributed to his life, and when they meet again he tells her that he loves her for the first time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Writing all the changes to Harry's life in the Hermione-less world made me realized just how many crucial discoveries and ideas she had over the course of the series! It was also a bit sad, thinking of all the things that could have went wrong, without her. I hope this chapter is fun to read. I really enjoyed writing their reunion best of all. Have fun!

Walking with Sir Owain was undemanding. He was silent and alert, listening with a warrior’s ear for any detection of movement besides themselves in the forest. Whenever they did hear a rustle of leaves denoting the presence of another being, it proved to be a nocturnal animal, which scurried or flew away in their path before they even saw it.  
Since Owain was so quietly engaged in assessing possible threats, this left Harry alone with his thoughts. That was the one place that he didn’t really want to be, and had no intention of ending up.   
His first thought was Voldemort. Sirius had the locket Horcrux in his possession, and the basilisk tooth dagger, which would destroy it. Why had Sirius insisted that they wait to perform another Banishing, insisting that they gather their strength? Apart of Harry recalled how sweaty and out of breath Sirius and Hermione had been after banishing the fragment of Voldemort’s soul from his own body, and given their scant nourishment over the last few months maybe such a strenuous magical procedure had better wait until they had rested….but if that was not Sirius at all, but some agent of Voldemort’s who was perhaps a Metamorphmagus, and had taken the form of his godfather…  
“Sorcerer of Shakespeare, you are muttering,” Owain said.  
“What?” Harry asked.  
“I believe your words were, ‘if someone was a Legilimens, and a Metamorphmagus, they’d know I was wishing to see Sirius again, and they could turn into him,’ ; I beg your indulgence, Sorcerer-I repeat only what I heard,” Owain said.  
“I sort of talk out loud when I’m working stuff out. And, what did you call me?” Harry asked.  
“Are you not from the same land as the Sorceress? To pass the time on our trek, tell me of the land of Shakespeare,” Owain said.  
“I think there’s been some misunderstanding, here,” Harry said.  
Owain held up his hand in a diplomatic gesture of relenting, and said, “But, of course. I intrude. A sorcerer’s abode must be kept as preciously guarded as his true name.”  
Harry wasn’t sure if anything he ventured to say would get through to Owain. When he thought about what he said, though, about a sorcerer’s abode being secret, he realized he never knew where Dumbledore lived when he wasn’t at Hogwarts. Had he lived anywhere else? How did he know so many other wizards, so many obscure things? Harry felt shamed at his arrogance that one day, when he was old enough, Dumbledore would let him in, tell him not only secrets of wizardry but grow close to him in a personal way…he had always fancied that they had a bond, and that the Headmaster was doing everything he could for his benefit, but silently and behind the scenes…but, there was so much that Harry didn’t know. Had Dumbledore been robbed, by Snape, of a chance to tell him, or had he never intended to?  
He knew what Hermione would say. She would insist, with passionate conviction, “Dumbledore loved you.”  
But, Harry had no idea what people did when they loved each other. The Dursleys loved their son…so they stood idly by as Dudley became a thug and a sadist, refusing to believe that he was anything less than the flower of English boyhood. As much as he despised them, maybe through consequence of living with them he had imbibed without even trying to the idea that love meant letting people do whatever they wanted to do without criticism or complaint. Ginny had never argued against anything he proposed: she agreed with his theories, she approved even his most extreme actions, all silently with that intensely certain look in her eyes-she only heatedly appealed to him to listen to her, and include her, but never against anything he did or wanted to do. Hermione questioned everything, even him, by her own conscience, and wasn’t afraid to speak her piece and prove her point. He was ashamed that he hadn’t been able to handle that, and in doing so had robbed them both of months, perhaps years, of figuring out just what love is, with no impediment or pretense.  
Ron had seen-that was the source of his jealousy. Cho had seen, so had Rita Skeeter, and even Mrs. Weasley…only Harry had doggedly not seen, but now she was gone. The moonlight on the leaves, illuminating the path ahead of them, only led to more barrenness, the forest a microcosm of a world devoid of Hermione. The fear of never seeing her again was like a flood he was trying to hold in a broom closet. The feelings were so intense they were like a physical fever that Harry was trying to walk in spite of. His thoughts were consumed with Dumbledore and Hermione, and he realized maybe he had equated them because they were both gone before he had a chance to know much about them, all the things he had taken their presence in his life so for granted that he didn’t ask, there hadn’t been enough time.  
He knew Hermione lived in London, but in what neighborhood? What had her Muggle school and life been like when she was a child? She wore pink a lot, was it her favorite color? How did Hermione really feel about Quidditch? She couldn’t play it very well, but her birthday gifts to him were always Quidditch related, and she had cheered jubilantly at the World Cup. He had rarely seen her so carefree and excited, bouncing and clapping and whooping, her curly hair bouncing around her shoulders…  
“There, Sorcerer-that is our destination. But, we will have to cross Morgaine’s garden, first,” Owain warned.  
“A bloody garden? After starvation, attacking plants, my crazed, knife wielding godfather, a flood, and a tidal wave, all right: I won’t pick the posies,” Harry said.  
“Morgaine’s garden is not designed to delight the eye, but to protect the green tower. Surely you know why this island, and all you have encountered on it, was built by her magic?” Owain said.  
“To test people, right? That’s what Hermione said before…” Harry faltered to say, ‘before she disappeared.’  
“To trap Merlin, her lover. Morgaine grew tired of Camelot, and lured Merlin to build a pleasure island with her in the hidden realms, that they may visit when they grew weary of their cares-so he thought. In truth, she entrapped him in a bower. This is an island of traps, to hold an unwilling guest,” Owain said.  
“Well, I haven’t got a wand, anymore,” Harry said.  
“Then you will have to concentrate, Sorcerer,” Owain said.  
Harry reminded himself what Sirius had said: a wand is just a tool, the magic is you. Harry fortified himself with that, and shook off the fear that this was futile, he would never see Hermione again…that simply couldn’t be, he wouldn’t allow it. He was beginning to feel strong and able again as the forest ended in a stone wall. An iron gate covered in vines opened, languidly admitting them into an orchard of golden apples.  
“Don’t touch them. They may grant gifts you are not meant to house,” Owain said.  
Harry didn’t know what that meant, but at this point he just wanted to get through the ordeal. If it wasn’t the time to try anything tricky, he could play it straight. He looked around, at the neat rows of medium height apple trees, golden apples with lustrous skin that reminding him of a rising sun peeking out amongst the green leaves. As they walked, when Harry looked up he could see what looked like a great, leafy green mountain towering over the horizon.  
“That is the Green Tower,” Owain said, of the strange structure, that was some hybrid of a giant tree and a castle. “Morgaine’s keep. Where the Sorceress and your other companion must be.”  
“We’ve got to get to that Tower,” Harry said.  
Owain put a comforting hand on his shoulder.  
The orchard ended, and they reached a fountain. The sound of water filled the silence.   
“Morgaine’s fountain,” Owain said, in recognition and awe.  
“Doesn’t look dangerous to me. What does it do?” Harry asked.  
“We must pass through all the tests. Look into it. It will show you life without that which you have lost, and seek,” Owain said.  
“No,” Harry said.   
“Only through meeting each test can we reach the Tower,” Owain said.  
Harry reluctantly gazed into the fountain. He saw only churning gray water, furrowed with ripples, at first…as the water circulated, he began to feel first meditative, then drowsy…Harry blinked to right his state of mind.   
When his thoughts cleared, he heard not the churning of water, but the wheels of the Hogwarts Express. The compartment door opened, and Harry was greeted with Ron’s familiar face. His face was not furious, with cold eyes brimming with disgust, his body brimming with hatred that Harry associated with Snape. He had known that Ron was done with him, no longer had faith in him, didn’t even like him, moments before he had Appartated away.  
This Ron, however, was smiling with gladness to see him, like always. The order of the world was restored. Maybe Morgana had fixed everything, righted their world, and turned time to restore Harry and Hermione to their world, before they could even be missed. Another year at Hogwarts was beginning.  
“Ron! Blimey, I’m glad to see you!” Harry said.  
Ron smiled even brighter, and closed the compartment door.  
“Yeah, I’m just glad they’re even having us back, at good ol’ Hogwarts,” Ron said. “My dad says kids run away all the time, try to make a go of it out in the Muggle world the way we did, it should be all right.”  
“Huh?” Harry said.  
“I told you, remember? They’re going to let us stay on, and then review it all again when we’re 17, see if we’re fit to stay wizards,” Ron said. “I don’t mind too much, really-sometimes I reckon I’d rather be an accountant. My best subject was maths, when Mum homeschooled us. And you’re from the Muggle world, aren’t you? You must know all about how to get a proper job.”  
“I left when I was 11, remember? All I know about how to get a job involves walking down Sesame Street until you get to the Luis and Maria’s Fix-It Shop,” Harry said. “I mean, if they’ve got any open positions.”  
Ron, who’d never watched “Sesame Street” a day in his life, didn’t understand the joke and nodded, saying, “Yeah, well, there you go: we’ll ask around.”  
“Ron, what are you banging on about? Why are we going to be reviewed to see if we can be practicing wizards?” Harry asked. “Why are you surprised that they let us back in Hogwarts?”  
“Bloody Hell, Harry, how can you not remember? I’d say you got hit with a Bludger, but Quidditch season hasn’t even started,” Ron said.   
“I have no idea what you’re banging on about,” Harry said.  
“Look, last year, that hag Umbridge had you do those detentions, carving you up with that blood quill? You must remember that,” Ron said, frowning with genuine concern.  
“ ‘Course,” Harry said, and held up the back of his hand, which still read, in thin pink lines, “I Must Not Tell Lies”.  
Ron looked relieved that Harry remembered this much, and continued, “Well, we ran away. What else were we gonna do? We made a go of it as street magicians in London, doing stupid card tricks for Muggles in the touristy spots. We did all right. Remember that room we rented? And we practically lived off fish and chips. I still have the taste of it in my mouth. And that grease plays havoc on your stomach in quite an enduring way.”  
“That’s not what happened,” Harry said, shaking his head. “Umbridge, yeah, that happened, but the rest of it…Ron, why don’t you remember Dumbledore’s Army?”  
Ron frowned, and said, “Because he hasn’t got one, I guess? Why would Dumbledore have an army?”  
“That’s just what we called it. Ginny came up with it, remember?” Harry said.   
At this, Ron went a bit pale and looked particularly disturbed. He paused for a bit and regained his composure before speaking again.  
“Anyway, Dad found us, of course, and straightened it all out with the Ministry. Sort of. At least Umbridge is gone,” he said.  
“She’s gonna need a lot more than a summer to recover from what Hermione did to her,” Harry said, with a smile. Right after trapping Rita Skeeter in a jar, sicing the Centaurs on Umbridge was one of her finest moments-she was as lethal a magical genius as Fred and George, when she was of a mind to be.   
“Who?” Ron asked.  
“Umbridge. Come on, the Centaurs?” Harry said.   
“No, I mean, who’s Hermione?” Ron asked.  
At first, Harry laughed. Then, he looked at Ron, and saw how solemn and concerned his face was, and his laughter died.   
“Umbridge would still be at Hogwarts if Dad hadn’t sent along that sordid little diary of her’s to the Quibbler. They print a lot of far off stuff, but you know what the Muggles say: ‘Sex sells.’ All those crazy romantic fantasies she had about Cornelius Fudge sank her career,” Ron said. “Harry, what about last year do you remember?”  
As Harry unspooled the story of Dumbledore’s Army to Ron, he couldn’t help but mention Hermione, who had spearheaded the project, come up with the Protean charm on the galleons, and the fail safe that gave any potential snitches disfiguring acne. Ron laughed at this part, but he said, “Never happened, mate. You must have had one crazy dream,” then his bemusement faded, and he said, “Do you think he’s putting idea in your head? You-Know-Who?”  
“Voldemort didn’t make up Hermione! We’ve known her since first year! She’s over at your house every summer! Ron, think: the mountain troll? The philosopher’s stone?” Harry said.   
“First year, we thought Snape was trying to steal the Philosopher’s stone,” Ron said.   
“Yes! That happened!” Harry said, glad they had found some commonality.   
“So, we followed him around all year, eavesdropping, and tried to get past all those crazy challenges that the professors had set up. I drank that funny potion, sprouted tentacles all over, McGonagall, Dumbledore, and Snape found us, but they also found Quirrell, and stopped him before he could make off with the stone,” Ron said.  
That wasn’t what had happened…they had made it farther than the potions. But, of course, Harry figured: they wouldn’t have, if Hermione hadn’t been there. He wanted to see what else Ron remembered.  
“And, our second year? The Chamber of Secrets, you do remember that, don’t you?” Harry said.  
Ron scowled darkly, reminiscent of the way he had looked the night he left the tent in the Forest of Dean.  
“I’m not likely to forget, am I? My sister died there,” he said.   
“Ginny isn’t dead!” Harry cried, horrified. “Ron, we got her out of there, out of the Chamber!”  
“How could we have done, Harry? We were so busy following Malfoy around under your Invisibility Cloak, convinced that he was the Heir of Slytherin. How were we supposed to know it was a bloody book?!” Ron roared.  
“But, we stopped it! Before she was petrified, Hermione worked out that it was a basilisk, living in the pipes. She wrote ‘pipes’ on the note, and-” Harry insisted, but Ron put a hand on his arm and looked piercingly into his eyes.  
“Harry! Mate! Can you leave this off, right here, right now? I know that you have some strange thoughts, and you can’t always help it. But, not about this, all right? I can’t talk about Ginny. Please,” Ron said.   
Harry realized several things at once. One, that Ron believed with all his being the things that he was saying: that it was the professors who had cornered Quirrell, that Ginny had died in the Chamber of Secrets, that Mr. Weasley had sunk Umbridge’s career with bureaucratic machinations, and Dumbledore’s Army had never happened. How could it? Hermione didn’t exist to come up with the idea, Ginny had died several years before, ergo she wasn’t around to name it. Harry felt oppressively sad at the idea of a world without either of them, that he hadn’t been able to save Ginny, that Ron didn’t even seem to know Hermione.   
But, Harry also knew that he couldn’t waste time getting lost in the maelstrom of his feelings. He had to figure this new world out.  
“So, you don’t know a Hermione Granger at all? There’s no girl in our year at Hogwarts by that name, in any House?” Harry asked.  
“No,” Ron said. “Mate, this imaginary girlfriend of yours’ sounds brilliant, but she’s just not real.” He idly petted Scabbers.  
“What’s he doing here?!” Harry asked frantically, pointing at the rat in Ron’s arms.  
“Who?” Ron asked, looking around.   
“Wormtail! Peter Pettigrew!” Harry said.   
Harry took his wand out, but when he scanned his memory of the night in the Shrieking Shack in third year, he realized that Sirius and Lupin had not said out loud the spell that had turned Peter from his Animagus from back into a man.  
“Put that thing away! What, you’re going to kill Scabbers to make you feel better, because your Hermione person isn’t real?” Ron cried, leaping out of his seat to put distance between him and Harry, protectively hugging Scabbers.  
“That’s not a rat, that’s an Animagus called Peter Pettigrew! He framed Sirius for his crimes, remember? You must remember that, at least!” Harry said desperately.  
Ron frowned, and said, “Sirius Black? That nutter? He killed Peter Pettigrew decades ago, Harry, you know that. Then he came out, and was after you. But, the Dementors got him.”  
“No!” Harry burst out. “No, Ron…we proved that he was innocent. He’s my godfather, and we saved him from the Dementors. And Buckbeack.”  
“That mad hippogriff of Hagrid’s that the Ministry put to death?” Ron said. “Harry…you’re not all right, mate. You’re talking a bunch of rubbish…and its scary. Look, I’m going to go grab some things off the trolley. I converted some of the money we made into wizard’s money-I think I can stretch it pretty far.”  
Ron slid the door open, leaving Harry alone. Harry sat alone, listening to the wheels of the train, putting the pieces together-or, perhaps, counting the lacunae. If there was no Hermione, then there was no one to brew the Polyjuice Potion, or figure out that there was a basilisk in the pipes-so, Ginny had died before Harry and Ron could reach her, because they wouldn’t have known to follow the pipes to the Chamber. Likewise, Sirius hadn’t been saved, either, because there had been no Crookshanks to spot something off about Scabbers, and lead Harry, Ron, and Hermione to the Shrieking Shack chasing Scabbers there, or Hermione and her Time-Turner to create a window for Sirius and Buckbeak to escape.   
In fifth year, there had been no DA. What else, Harry wondered, had been different?  
Ron returned, with an armful of Cauldron Cakes, and Harry asked,  
“What about Fourth Year? The Tri Wizard tournament?”  
“That again,” Ron said, rolling his eyes. “Look, I’m sorry I didn’t believe you. Dumbledore cancelled the whole thing, anyway, when that dragon almost killed you,” Ron said.  
“So, Voldemort doesn’t have Wormtail by his side, and he didn’t lure me and Cedric to the graveyard. How did he come back?” Harry asked.  
“He possessed Barty Crouch, Jr. He’s been running up and down the country in his body like it’s a suit of clothes, at any rate,” Ron said.   
That, Harry figured, made sense. Desperate to take human form once again, he had assumed the body of a devoted follower, like he had with Quirrell. Not as good as the blood and bone ritual, but for that he would have needed the Tri-Wizard tournament to continue, and to have Harry in his clutches.  
Harry counted up how much he had lost, or had never experienced at all, in this world, because there was no Hermione in it. Even his time dating Ginny wouldn’t have been possible if Hermione hadn’t provided the vital clue in stopping the basilisk’s progress through the pipes. Sirius would be kissed by Dementors, Buckbeak would be dead, and he would have had no one by his side during the Tri Wizard tournament in Fourth Year: meaning no Hermione teaching him summoning charms, no way to summon his broom during the challenge against the dragon.   
He had an unbearable urge to say Hermione’s name, as if this would conjure her back into existence. He was now, not for the first time, ashamed afresh at the times he had avoided or lied to her, been annoyed at or dismissed her idea. He now saw how many times, just by being herself, she had saved him and others they both loved. Life without her was darker, emptier, with fewer victories and more losses.   
The train was lurching to a stop at Hogsmeade station.  
“Well, sixth year, here we come,” Ron said, with false cheerfulness. “We could just make this easy on ourselves, drop out. Not like we really made many O.W.L.s.”  
How could they have, without Hermione to help them study, Harry thought.  
“Yeah, we could join the Order of the Phoenix,” Harry said.  
“The what?” Ron asked.  
Of course. No Sirius, no 12 Grimmauld Place, no Order, at least not in the form that Harry recognized. Whatever efforts Dumbledore was making against Voldemort, Ron wasn’t privy to them.   
The train stopped, and Hagrid, at least, was the same, calling “First years, this way!” He waved broadly to Harry, and Harry smiled happily, waving back at his first friend. When Hagrid turned, Harry saw that he had terrible burn scars on one side of his face, and on the hand that held the lantern.  
“How did Hagrid get those awful scars?” Harry asked Ron.  
“Well, someone had to pull you out of the way of that dragon,” Ron said.  
Even Hagrid was less whole, in a world without Hermione. Harry had to stop himself from looking around for her. It was hard to accept that she wasn’t there, and that knowledge was twice as hard when he considered that he hadn’t fully realized how precious and vital she was until they were alone in the Ether. She had been Viktor Krum’s most precious possession at Hogwarts during the Tournament-after only observing her from afar for a few months, he had seen her worth, while Harry had dismissed her serious nature, and been intimidated by her confidence, mistaking it for being overbearing.   
Harry and Ron got into a carriage. He was surprised to find that the carriage seemed to be pulled by an invisible animal, as it had before he saw Cedric’s death. Could Cedric be alive?  
“Ron…why did the Ministry send Umbridge? Don’t they believe that Voldemort is back?” Harry asked.   
“Now, yeah, sure, after all the murders, and the Azkaban break-outs of Death Eaters, and the Dementors going over to this side and all. Why, did Hermione fix all that in your world, too? Like she saved my dead sister?” Ron said, with bitter sarcasm that silenced Harry.   
The carriage drawn by an animal that Harry couldn’t see pulled them along the village streets until they became forest trails, and gradually the horizon revealed the inspiriting sight of the old gray castle and the mountains behind it. Hogwarts still took Harry’s breath away. He looked around for familiar faces, and despite the sodden unhappiness at the pit of his stomach as he lived each Hermione-less minute, he was relieved that Dean, Seamus, Neville, Ernie, Hannah, Susan, and other people he knew still existed.  
“Oy, Neville!” Harry said, waving as they disembarked from the carriages.  
Neville looked warily in their direction, suspiciously, then pointedly turned his head without answering.  
“What’s up with Neville?” Harry asked.  
“He just doesn’t talk much. Figures anyone talking to him is trying to have a go at him,” Ron said. “which they usually are, poor sod.”  
Harry realized that Hermione had met Neville before either him or Ron-it was she who organized the search for his toad, and she often helped him with his worst subject, Potions, and cheered him and encouraged him. Without following her lead, it seemed Ron and Harry had never taken the initiative to bond with him.   
The prefects of each house led the students under their charge into the castle.   
“Ron, you’re not a prefect?” Harry asked.  
Ron merely laughed out loud. Harry recognized neither the male or female prefect for Gryffindor, and was suddenly angry that they existed, but Hermione did not. He had had enough of this, Morgana’s cruelest illusion. He felt an empty place by his side where Hermione should be, and so much regret and loss that it felt like he was wearing a shroud he could not shake off.   
“Good luck up there, Ron,” Harry said, and broke away from the path.  
“Where are you going, Harry?” Ron asked, following him.  
Harry looked at the boy who had been his first friend in the wizarding world, who had been his best friend for seven years. From what Harry could tell, he and Ron had done the best they could without Hermione. Most of their ideas had been shoddy, bad ones, and they had not had as many successes, victories, and saves, as with the girl they both loved walking between them. Their grades were probably poorer, too. But, this was, at least, a Ron who still cared for Harry, a Ron that he could choose to say goodbye to with love and affection, as bittersweet as it was to leave at all. He had to get back to the Ether, to Hermione. This test was over, no matter what Morgana had to say.   
“Thanks for being by my side, mate. I think we did the best we could. Don’t blame yourself, for anything we didn’t get right. No one can make it on their own,” Harry said.  
“Thanks, man,” Ron said.   
“And, ask Professor McGonagall to look at that rat, all right?” Harry said.  
“Yeah, okay, but Harry, what’s going on? Where are you going?” Ron called, but Harry jogged to the lake, by himself.

“To the water,” Harry called back over the shoulder, and walked to the banks of the lake. He looked into the water, and said, “I get it now, all right? I want out. I want to go back. I don’t want to live here. That’s the bloody challenge, isn’t it? To figure out that you have to go on. I want to keep looking for Hermione. There’s nothing in this world I need as much as I need Hermione. I don’t want to live in a world without her!”  
Harry spoke to the water as if confronting Morgana. He felt a lurching sensation like he was in a topsy-turvy house, or like when he had Apparated for the first time alongside Dumbledore.  
When he blinked, he was unsteady on his feet, and back in Morgana’s garden.  
“Harry!”   
He instantly turned in the direction of Hermione’s voice. She was wearing a white dress-a very romantic, medieval type number made of a strange fabric that looked like white rose petals-and running towards him, through the trees of Morgana’s orchard.  
Harry couldn’t run to her fast enough. He had chosen her, yearned for her, wanted her, been left desolate by her absence, and now at the sight of her his hope and strength returned.  
She stopped, leaving just a few inches of space between them, looking into his eyes with happy tears shining in hers’.   
“When Morgana said that you were here…I didn’t believe it! But, I had to see. How did you reach the tower?” she said happily.  
Harry shrugged. “You know, I walked,” he said.  
Hermione laughed. “You make it sound so simple!”  
“It was, at the end. Hermione, I saw this world where…I didn’t know you. There was no you. You didn’t exist. And…I had lost so much, so many people got hurt, because of us. Hermione, you saved me, you saved all of us, so many times, and I never saw it,” Harry said.  
“Harry, you don’t have to keep apologizing for what you didn’t see,” Hermione said. “We were kids. Not knowing something at first, and then learning it is just apart of growing up. We were just growing up, Harry.”  
“You don’t even realize how amazing you are,” Harry said. “I want to go home with you, Hermione. Let’s go home.”  
“When I said that we could just stay in one place, and grow old…I think I was so tired I had no strength to lie about how I felt, anymore,” Hermione said. “I love you, Harry.”  
“I’ve never told anyone that I love them before, Hermione,” Harry said. “But I learned how much I love you when I had to live in a world without you. I love you, Hermione. And this isn’t our world either. Let’s go home, Hermione.”  
She smiled radiantly, and framed Harry’s face with her hands. He closed his eyes in relish of the comfort that her touch gave him. He leaned in to kiss her. There was much to talk about, to figure out, to decide, to do…but, this, Harry decided, would come first. There was no other thought in his head but Hermione as their lips met.


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry and Hermione return home, and end up in Godric's Hollow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two new chapters tonight! Continue to chapter 17, and enjoy!

Harry never wanted to let go. Hermione’s lips grew wetter, softer, as the kiss continued, and they moved insistently against his, leading the kiss. His lips parted in obeisance, and her tongue, dainty, darting, then sinuous and winding, plumbed his mouth, urging his into a waltz, and Harry held her close as they shared each breath in their kiss. His hands sailed along the soft, petal silk fabric of the dress that Morgana gave her, feeling the symmetry of her body and the warmth of her beneath the soft fabric. A sweet smell rose from her hair, and Harry dizzily drank the scent, intoxicated from the kiss and the smell of her hair.   
“Has your hair always smelled like that?” he asked.  
Hermione laughed, giving him a bemused look, as if saying, ‘Really? Right now? My hair isn’t important’.   
“Like what, pray tell?” she asked.  
Harry smiled at her swotty diction and delivery, remembering the little girl with the curly hair who answered every question in class, fixed his glasses on the Hogwarts Express, and corrected Ron’s pronunciation of ‘Leviosa’.  
“Flowers,” Harry asked, remembering the smell that had risen from Slughorn’s cauldron of Amortentia, and wafted from Ginny’s hair.  
“Its my shampoo. Mrs. Weasley makes it out of castile soap and wildflowers. She sends it to me and Ginny by owl when we’re up at school,” Hermione said.  
Harry felt slightly sad. He had been so determined not to get between Ron and his feelings for Hermione, he had hidden and run from any sign that his own feelings for her had grown deeper. When Slughorn showed them the strongest love potion known to Wizarding-kind, he had smelled Hermione’s hair, not Ginny’s, as he had assumed. But, Hermione had admonished him once not to keep beating himself up for the mistakes he had made in the past, and she didn’t like to scold him or Ron for the same infraction more than once; he decided to say nothing.  
“Harry,” she said, appealing to him with her frank gaze.   
He felt a vein of lightning pierce him when their eyes met, and a frisson wrack his body, especially his lower body and spine. He hadn’t felt this aroused since he had kissed her neck right before the tidal wave hit, and her moans echoed through his body like a shout in a valley. Now was not the time, he knew, but his body had come abruptly alive.  
Hermione seemed to sense the shift in his feelings, as if his skin reverberated with it, and her gaze was firm, her expression stern.   
“We have to go back into the Tower. Morgana is in there alone with Sirius, and you know he has a way of…perturbing people,” Hermione said. “she’s said that she’ll see us home, once you arrive, we wouldn’t want her to change her mind.”  
“You trust her?” Harry said, surprised. “She’s put us through Hell.”  
“She has a story to tell you. It concerns you and Voldemort most intimately. I don’t know if I quite believe it entirely, comprised as it is of so many variables that its nigh impossible to test empirically for veracity-” Hermione said quickly, but Harry sensibly cut her off,  
“Hermione, you’re spinning into butter. Why don’t you prep me for what Morgana’s going to say, before she tries to sell me the Brooklyn Bridge?” Harry said.  
“Is the Brooklyn Bridge in the Land of Shakespeare?” Owain asked, jogging over to them.  
“Sir Owain!” Hermione said delightedly, and threw her arms around him in one of the hugs that Harry was astounded it was so easy for her to give. He didn’t feel the monstrous jealousy that his hormonal crush on Ginny had provoked when he saw her with Dean, but he felt slightly miffed and impatient for the hug to be over. Sir Owain, too, was taken aback by this more modern form of expressing affection, and knelt before Hermione like an illustration of a Tennyson poem and kissed her hand.  
“Oh, enough of that. Come into the Tower, with us, Owain….and try not to take any souvenirs in the name of chivalry,” Hermione said.   
She led her friends into the Green Tower, and they walked amongst its walls shuddering with verdant vines. Roses wound along the railing of the stairs, and small, pixie-like creatures flitted about them like dragonflies who whispered gossip to each other in small voices.  
“Harry, Morgana claims to be your ancestor,” Hermione said, and as they climbed the stairs, she told him the story of Morgana, Merlin, and Auberon.  
“Hermione, why should I believe the woman who’s tortured us the way that she has?” Harry protested.   
Hermione had, at least, expressed her usual skepticism, but Harry rebelled even harder against this theory. He didn’t want any kinship with Voldemort. Voldemort, the murderer of his family, could not possibly be related to him.   
When Hermione opened the door to the tower room where she had been kept after Morgana summoned her, the room where Morgana awaited, Harry was too thunderstruck even for anger or revulsion. Standing before him, in dark robes and a silver necklace, was his mother. Her red hair was the color of fresh bricks wet from a rainstorm, her eyes were oval shaped and peridot green like his own, and they stared at him with the same wistful, longing love as they had from the Mirror of Erised…Harry felt an instant pull towards her, his bones and blood knew that he had come from her.  
Only when he blinked did he see the differences between Morgana and Lily: Morgana’s face was sharper, she was taller, thinner, and her hair was a color that no bloodline on earth, perhaps, could produce any longer, a blood red truer than mere auburn. Her ancientness gave her a certain androgyny, as angels are said to have in legend, a terrible beauty like a demon at the edge of a desert, beckoning, seducing.  
“My son,” she said.  
“How?” Harry said, and his voice came out more breathless than he had meant. His throat felt tight and dry.  
Morgana held out her hand to him. Harry flinched, and backed away. He didn’t always like to be touched. Uncle Vernon had threatened to beat him so many times, and grabbed him and shaken him many more, and that was his first association with touch. Hermione, sensing that he was uncomfortable, reached out with her eyes, instead. Her brown eyes danced with stars, they were familiar, calm, and wise. They calmed him enough to accept Morgana’s entreaty.  
“Where’s Sirius?” Harry asked.  
“He is your vanguard. I have sent him ahead to cry the news of your return,” Morgana said, and gestured towards the mirror. Sir Owain’s eyes lit up with opportunistic hope at the sight of a relic he could possibly take to the Faerie Lands, but Hermione scowled at him to remind him of his promise not to pilfer anything.  
“How can I trust you, about anything?” Harry asked.  
“It is not easy to trust. A knife may be hidden within a sleeve, poison may dance in the sweetest wine, and those we love know all our secrets-if ever they become our enemies, how can we withstand them?” Morgana said. “You have every right to hate me, Harry. I put all this into motion so long ago, an impetuous girl who wanted to learn magic forbidden to women, who wanted the most accomplished wizard of the age for her master, who wanted her master to see and desire her as a woman.”  
“Did you use a love potion?” Harry asked. “To trap Merlin?”  
“No. I needed no arts. He was a lonely man. We all have our share of passion, and a need to be loved. Sometimes, all another must do to become the object of it is to be there, when we cannot stand aloneness anymore,” Morgana said. “But you ask me, because you link me in your mind to Merope Gaunt. You think I have no scruples?”  
“Prove me wrong,” Harry said. “Why do you look like my mum? Is that another trick?”  
“There was a time, when Muggleborns were called Fairchildren. Children of the Faeries. It was understood, quite rightly, that their magic came from a faerie ancestor, or perhaps a witch or wizard who lived long ago,” Morgana said. “Your mother was one of my children, as was your father. They never knew of their connection. Nor, did Tom Riddle know that he could, like you, trace your bloodline through the Peverell family, to Auberon, to Merlin, to me. Our family is scattered, and splintered. You and Tom are its heirs, and you can give each other no peace until only one is left.”  
“He’s not going to stop coming for me,” Harry said.  
“No. He has chosen his role, and cast your’s, as well,” Morgana said.   
“The Horcruxes…do you know about them?” Harry asked.  
“Crude magic,” she said, with distaste. “Sirius followed my instructions perfectly, and I think madness has done him well. However, it is not for him to destroy another Horcrux. Your sword will be redeemed in destroying it,” she said, handing Harry the locket and the basilisk tooth dagger. He took them with delicacy, but a confused look on his face as he handed them to Hermione, and she put them in the beaded velvet bag.   
“The sword of Gryffindor?” Harry asked.  
“It is indeed a sword, of Gryffindor,” Morgana said, with a smile that would be playful if her eyes were not so grave. “The sword that abandoned you.”  
“Ron?” Hermione asked. Harry’s eyes flew to her at the mention of their friend’s name. She looked at Harry, and explained, “Ron was a sword, in the legends of Arthur. She doesn’t mean an actual sword, she means that Ron must destroy this Horcrux.”  
“Then, we’re going home?” Harry asked.  
“You’re going home,” she said, with a meaningfulness Harry didn’t quite understand. “Look into the mirror. Walk through it. Do not be afraid. Whatever happens, Harry, your brother lives in you. He lives as long as you live.”  
Harry didn’t understand. It was the very opposite of the prophecy, which said neither he nor Voldemort could live as long as the other could survive. Hermione gazed into the mirror, and Sir Owain drew her attention to him, saying,  
“Sorceress, take this Singing Stone,” as he handed her a faintly shimmering rock. As he blew across its surface, low, clear music rose from it. He pressed Hermione’s hand, as he placed the stone in her palm.   
Hermione smiled, and said, “Thank you, Owain. For everything. Oh, and by the way, I’m not from Shakespeare…I’m from Elgin Crescent. By Kensington Gardens.”  
“Hermione of the Gardens, Hail and Farewell,” Owain said solemnly.  
“The mirror will take us home, Harry,” Hermione said.  
He looked into it, and said, “Have we got to click our heels? Say there’s no place like home?”  
“That’s not our sort of magic, Harry,” Hermione joked.   
“What about our house? Everything’s in it, all our dreams,” Harry said.  
“No matter what, we always take those with us,” Hermione said. “and we can access them within us, and rebuild them.”  
She squeezed Harry’s hand, and together, they closed their eyes and walked through the mirror.  
When their feet touched the ground again, Hermione felt snow under her feet. Cold air touched her face, dry winter air, the air after a snowfall.  
She looked around. As she blinked, small gray snowflakes fell in her eyes. When she looked up, it was at a cloudy night sky, too cloud crowded for stars. When she looked around, she saw a small, stone medieval chapel, and a graveyard. She was standing amongst the headstones, like a garden of stone blooming from the snowy ground, the ancient stone monuments crowded with snow.


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry and Hermione reach a safehouse in time for Christmas Eve

Hermione looked vulnerable in her thin dress in the snowy graveyard, but the icy air somehow intensified the floral smell of her hair. She was an almost eerie sight. Harry looked around, and took in their surroundings, the cemetery of a small village church.   
“Where are we?” Harry asked, as he stripped off his flannel shirt, and gave it to Hermione. She put it on, and gave him a silent thanks with a smile.   
“I don’t know for sure, but if I had to guess, I’d say, Godric’s Hollow,” Hermione said.  
“What? Why do you think so?” Harry asked.  
“Morgana kept saying, that things would begin to end when you returned there,” Hermione said.  
“ ‘Morgana says’,” Harry mimicked. “Hermione, that bat almost killed you, and me, and Sirius several times over, but you keep quoting her and taking her lead. What makes you think we can trust her, wholesale? How’s that any different than me and the Prince, last year?”  
“That’s completely different! The Prince was a crutch that you used to put a wall up between us,” Hermione said.  
“And what’s Morgana to you? Because I don’t believe some faerie story about my mum and dad both being descended from Merlin, and me and Voldemort being long lost cousins,” Harry said.  
“Why not? Sirius and Ron have both told us more than once that all purebloods are related. And, it explains his fixation with you,” Hermione said.   
“Oh, great, its like that bloody movie, “Highlander”? ‘There can be only one’?” Harry said.  
“Yes! Actually, that’s it precisely! He’ll be the last of Merlin’s bloodline, if he kills you! Don’t you understand, the hold that lineage has over his imagination? The Heir of Slytherin, he was proud to call himself. He never had a family, and when he found his father he was a Muggle, whom he despised-he wants to be the son of an impressive wizarding bloodline, and to his mind, you’re standing in the way,” Hermione said.  
Harry frowned thoughtfully. “What’s so important about names, and bloodline? I just want a family. I know who my parents are…but I can’t talk to them, or be with them. I have their fortune, but its just money, it doesn’t really do you any good. I have pictures of them, but…its not the same,” he said.  
Hermione looked at him with love and compassion, and said, “Maybe Voldemort felt all of that, too…but, all of his loneliness and longing coalesced into the idea that if he couldn’t have a family, he would at least have a name that would win him respect. He thought respect would give him the happiness that eluded him…or, rather, make him better than others, from which he would derive self respect.”  
“That’s a real Slytherin state of mind,” Harry said.  
Hermione allowed a weak laugh, and hugged the flannel shirt close around her middle.   
The snow fell, and the silence around them felt comfortable but also reverent.   
“Hermione, do you think they’re here?” Harry asked.  
“Who, Harry?” she asked, but then quickly realized the answer to her own question. His parents. This was, after all, the village of Harry’s birth, the place where his parents had died. Chances were high that James and Lily Potter had been buried there, if enough had remained of them to bury.   
“Would you like to look for them?” she asked.  
Before Harry could answer, bells rang, like the song of a phoenix, from the tower of the stone chapel. A square of golden light fell like honey on the snow, and parishioners in their coats issued out of the church building.   
“Damn. Hermione, have you got my cloak?” Harry asked.  
She produced it from the bag, and Harry hastily threw it over both of them. They huddled close, both of them growing considerably warmer, and stood under a bare oak tree as the Muggles left the church. Harry wrapped his arm around Hermione’s waist.  
“Taking advantage?” Hermione asked jauntily.  
“Never,” Harry said cheekily.   
Hermione laughed, then she grew more serious and said, “Harry, I know I told you to let the past go, rather than to beat yourself up over your choices. But, when I saw your Patronus, I realized how wrong I had been, too. I put up walls, too, and I pushed you away, because I was afraid of being rejected.”  
“Then I must have done something to make you think that was possible,” Harry whispered.  
“No!” Hermione protested. “Harry, you’re the most decent bloke I know! I just…you never gave any sign that you had any feelings for me besides friendship, so I thought you must be turning to me now out of desperation: missing Ginny, or being angry with Ron, or maybe just feeling cut off from the rest of humanity. But, none of those suspicions was very generous of me.”  
“Sometimes the truth is right in front of us, so we miss it,” Harry said.   
The square of light disappeared as the priest closed the door, and the parishioners departed down a hill to the small carpark. When the graveyard was silent again, Harry and Hermione walked amongst the headstones, the cloak whispering as it disturbed the snow.  
“Harry, I think its Christmas Eve,” Hermione said. “Why else would there have been a midnight mass?”  
“Christmas Eve,” Harry mused, in wonder. Six months had passed since they set off to hunt the Horcruxes.  
“Do you think Hagrid put the tree up in the Great Hall?” Hermione asked.  
“Something tells me Snape is a bit of a Grinch-maybe a Christmas tree in the Great Hall isn’t really the spirit of his regime,” Harry said. “Miserable git. Can’t believe my mum ever gave him the time of day, let alone kissed him!”  
“Well, people change as they get older, sometimes,” Hermione said vaguely. “he’s still the boy who wrote those notes in Advanced Potionmaking. Even you liked him. Your mum must have liked him for the same reasons.”  
Harry felt a little exposed, but he couldn’t deny that Hermione was probably right. He imagined his mother, in a very Hermione-esque flurry of frantic page turning and fretting, bemoaning, “What’s the right antidote?” while with a bemused, ironic tone, a younger Snape quipped, with a nonchalant shrug, “Just stick a bezoar down their throats.” His mother would look up, with a begrudgingly amused smirk that, again, was much like Hermione’s.   
“Well, she couldn’t have known that he was going to grow up to murder Dumbledore,” Harry said.  
“Of course not. That’s the thing about a cause-the right one can inspire you to courage you didn’t know you had, the wrong one can pull you into depths you didn’t know you were capable of. Snape has been so devoted to Voldemort for so long, there’s no low he won’t sink to,” Hermione said.  
Harry pondered this, as they walked through the headstones. Familiar names caught his eye. The cemetery housed many Abbots, some Greengrasses, and other names of classmates that he vaguely knew from Hogwarts. No Potters, but he did spy the strange symbol, a triangle with a circle and line on it, from The Tales of Beedle the Bard, on a grave that said Peverell beneath the snow.  
“Peverell…is that anyone important?” Harry asked.   
Hermione frowned in thought. “There’s a Peverell Castle…But, I think that might be P-E-V-E-R-I-L….it has other forms, one of them is Pevensie…no, I can’t think of any famous or great wizards called Peverell. Why?”   
“Look,” Harry said, and pointed.  
“The triangle! From the book! Harry, Dumbledore is from this town, as are you, and that symbol…he must have wanted you to see it!” Hermione said. “But, its not rune that I’ve ever seen…”  
“You said, that the magic that we learn at Hogwarts isn’t all that there is,” Harry said.  
“Quite right, but what does this have to do with the Horcruxes? He couldn’t have left you another quest that he told you nothing about? No, I’m sure that everything Dumbledore did was for a reason,” Hermione said.  
Harry didn’t want to argue with her about her blind faith of authority. Maybe Hermione just had more faith, in general-in truth, in the goodness of others, in herself. Harry resolved that he would try it her way, at least for a bit, within reason. He was more concerned with finding his own name amongst the dead. They had to be here, somewhere…but, as he scanned the stones and saw every name but Potter, he was beginning to feel the way he did when he realized that Sirius was not going to emerge from behind the Veil.  
Then, he found them. The stone was not weathered gray like that of the older gray, but a young marble the color of milk. Carved into the smooth white stones were the names ‘Lily Evans Potter’ and ‘James Fleamont Potter’. Harry read the names several times, and then he stood on his knees in the snow, and traced them with his finger. Beneath the cold, snowy ground were their caskets, their bones. It was the first time he had truly grasped that the smiling young couple from his photograph book, and the Mirror of Erised truly resided there, in that cold ground in Godric’s Hollow. That is why they could not rush to his side when Uncle Vernon shook him, when he wet the bed and Aunt Petunia shouted at him, when Dudley punched him, why they could not sign his Hogsmeade permission form, or stop the Triwizard Tournament. Why he had no brothers and sisters, unlike Ron, or a mother to wave goodbye to him until the Hogwarts Express peeled around a corner, leaving the sight of her, with proud tears in her green eyes, behind.  
He had always known, but now the myriad ignominious abandonments were explained, forgiven, and opened afresh like ulcerous wounds with thin skins, erupting afresh. He was an orphan. His parents were dead.  
“They were so young!” Hermione gasped.   
She stood behind him in her ghostly white dress, and held out her hand to him, beckoning him to stand beside her. Harry realized that he had been standing on his father’s bones. He felt like an idiot-he had no idea how to act around graves, he had never visited one before.   
“22,” Harry said.  
“They were 21 when you were born…and 20 when your mother was carrying you…Harry, they must have gotten married when they were 19, or 18. Maybe even 17!” Hermione said, startled.  
“It was a different time,” Harry said. “I think a lot of people eloped. Voldemort, you know. The war, and all.”  
“Like WWII. It was a way of saying, ‘We’ll meet again,’, I suppose,” Hermione said. “a promise.”  
“I’ve never been here before. I’m glad you’re here, Hermione,” Harry said, and he didn’t recognize his own voice.   
It sounded idiotically wavering, nasally, and he could feel his mouth shaking. His eyes burned, stinging with tears, which he had been fighting all his life. Harry despised himself, he was furious with himself. He felt like a urine stained boy who’d been having bad dreams in the night, and didn’t want to be weak any more, ever again.   
When he felt Hermione’s arms around him, he couldn’t fight it, anymore. The weight of their mission, and all the time that had passed, and everything that he had lost fell, and he let go. Hermione held him.  
“Harry, look at me,” she said, firmly but with love. She touched his face, framing it with her hands, and looked into his eyes. They were close enough to kiss, but instead she held his gaze. Their breath began to fall into rhythm, and slowly, Harry’s tears stopped.  
“Is anyone there?” called a vaguely familiar female voice. Harry looked to the door of the church, which was open again.  
“Anyone here, tonight? For Christmas dinner?” asked Hannah Abbot.   
Abbot…many of the headstones bore Hannah’s name, so it made since that this was her hometown. It was Harry’s too-he had never known that they were from the same village. The last time he had seen the sweet, shy Hufflepuff girl, her face was in her hands as she sobbed tears of unabashed anguish as Professor Sprout led her away, at the news of the death of her mother. She was wearing a heavy wool witch’s cloak, and her blonde hair was pulled back from her face. She looked older and more mature, she had lost that slightly unsure look in her blue eyes that always meant she was going to look about her crowd of friends before she made up her mind. Without Susan Bones, Justin Finch-Fletchley, and Ernie MacMillan around her, she looked dignified and strong.   
“Should we go in? It’s Hannah. She’s a nice person,” Harry said.  
“Nice? Harry, she could be Imperiused, like Madam Rosmerta, and Katie Bell’s friend who gave her Malfoy’s necklace. Or, even if she’s not cursed, who knows what side she’s on?” Hermione said.  
“Voldemort killed her mum-she’s about as likely to become a Death Eater as you or I,” Harry countered.  
“What if she’s being coerced, threatened, or blackmailed?” Hermione said.  
“Hannah? Really?” Harry said. “What secrets could she have?”  
“Be quiet!” Hermione hissed.  
Figuring there were no takers to her offer of Christmas dinner, Hannah shut the church door. Hermione began walking towards the church, and Harry, under the cloak beside her, was compelled to walk alongside her. They crouched in the snow so that they were on eye level with the church basement window. Harry gasped at the sight before him.  
Goose, ham, vegetables, jellies, and puddings were arranged on a fold out table, and behind it Hannah and Ginny Weasley ladled Christmas dinner onto paper plates. They served Remus Lupin, who seemed to be saying a prolongedly gracious ‘Thank you’, and a line of wizards Harry didn’t recognize, in tattered cloaks, who looked as weary but grateful as Lupin.  
“Hermione, it’s the Order! It’s a safehouse! We can go in!” Harry said, and was about to tear off to the church door when Hermione put a halting hand on his arm.  
“No! Harry, we’re wanted wizards! We have to play it smart, or we can endanger all of these people for aiding or housing us,” Hermione said.  
He sighed. She was right. He was, after all, Undesirable No. 1. He was outside, in the cold, with the dead, while those he had known in his old life were warm, enjoying a holiday meal. He nestled into Hermione’s side. She was warm, alive, and by his side-that he could rely on, and appreciated more than ever.   
“Let’s have a poke around the village, see if we can get a feel for things,” Hermione said, and they rose to leave. When they turned around, they were both stunned to be facing Ron.   
“The thing about that cloak is, you still leave footprints,” Ron said.  
Harry and Hermione took the hood of the cloak down at once, and the three friends looked each other in the eyes for the first time in months. Harry didn’t know what to say. He looked over at Hermione, and saw that there were tears in her eyes.  
“Come inside, you two,” Ron said. “It’s Christmas.”  
The way he said ‘Christmas’ was plaintive, and loaded with emotion. It was contained an apology, the only sort that any of them knew how to make, or accept. Hermione, whose home had been so happy, Ron, whose home had been so crowded, and Harry, who had lost his home when he was just a baby…none of them quite had the words to address how deeply it had hurt for Ron to walk away, it was a breach of trust so antithetical to the bond they had forged and the friends they had been to each other. If they came inside the church, they knew it meant that all would be forgiven, and a new era between the three of them would begin.   
“Happy Christmas, Ron,” Harry said, and managed a smile.  
“Happy Christmas,” Hermione said, and exhaled.  
“Come inside,” Ron said.   
They entered the church, and Ron led them downstairs to the basement.  
“Harry!” Remus said, rising from the foldout steel chair and Formica table. He hugged Harry tight, and muttered happily, “Its true…when Sirius said, I hardly believed…”  
“Sirius? Is he here?” Harry asked.  
“No, he’s in Ireland, recruiting. He’s always had an affinity with Ireland, and still has some contacts out that way,” Remus said.  
“Your vanguard,” Hermione said, remembering what Morgana said Sirius’s role in the war would be.  
Remus raised his eyebrow, but soon dismissed it as the sort of inside reference to previous conversations that all couples had.  
“By God, we’re glad to see you, Harry. This is a safe place,” Remus said.  
“Harry! Why didn’t you say anything when I called?” Hannah said.  
“Sorry, Hannah. Gotta stay vigilant,” Harry said.  
“Too right!” she agreed. “Hermione, what are you wearing? You’re lucky you didn’t catch your death!”  
“I have other clothes, I just didn’t have time to change,” Hermione said.  
“Well, there are some rooms upstairs, go get warm, put on a jumper,” Hannah said warmly.   
“Ron, I’ve gotta talk to you,” Harry said, and meant to tell him about the Horcrux.   
Before he could, Ginny walked over to them. She and Harry looked into each other’s eyes, sizing each other up, feeling out the air between them. She was not the flame haired apparition that had haunted his lustful midnight thoughts as he used the high of lewd fantasies to stave off misery, nor was she the little girl who had blushed whenever he was around. It was as if he was seeing Ginny Weasley for the first time, not as other people saw her, not as the object of a fantasy, but a girl who wasn’t quite tall enough to look him in the eye but, all the same, was doing so. Her eyes were brown and inquisitive, shining out of a face flurried with freckles, a sharp, foxish face with an incongruously heavy jaw that gave all her smiles a sarcastic edge. Her figure was a small and pointed one, perky and taut in all the ways that had teased and aroused Harry during his last year at school, but when he looked at her altogether he saw shades of her mother, father, and brother in a way that made him feel crowded by them. There were Molly’s eyes, Fred’s and George’s jaw, Ron’s smirk and ironic way of raising his eyebrows, Bill’s expression when she was in repose, and something of Percy in her nose. Perhaps that is what he had wanted, once, to feel all of the Weasleys housed in her person.   
“I knew you weren’t dead,” she said gladly.  
“Thanks,” Harry said.   
“Where have you been?” she asked.   
“We got a bit lost,” Hermione said.  
“Gin, no more questions, look at the state of them,” Ron said.  
Ginny glared at him. Harry suppressed a laugh. At least that hadn’t changed.   
“Well, maybe you don’t care if they’re all right, but I actually do,” Ginny said.  
Ron looked at her thunderously, and said, “I do care!”  
“Ron, its all right. We understand why you left. I hope you believe that,” Hermione said.  
“You finked out. Classic Ron: begging to be let to play, doesn’t know what to do with the ball when he’s in the game,” Ginny said derisively.   
“Me, begging to be let to play? I’m not the one starved for attention,” Ron said.  
“And what does that mean?!” Ginny shrieked. “You left Harry and Hermione to die out there, and whatever you think of me, you have to live with that!”  
“I was POSSESSED!” Ron said. “You know what that’s like!”  
“I fought it!” Ginny said.  
“So, what? The basilisk would have killed all of those people if they hadn’t looked at it through other things. Keep going around telling yourself that you shook off Voldemort at age 11, nice little story,” Ron said.   
Ginny’s face twisted into thunderous anger, and only Hermione’s plaintive gaze stopped her from saying more or pulling out her wand.   
“These people need their Christmas. You’re not going to ruin it. But, if I was either of them I wouldn’t have anything more to do with you-coward,” Ginny spat, and stalked back off to the serving table.  
Harry and Hermione looked at Ron for an explanation.  
“Well, when I turned up, what could I say? Everyone wanted to know where you and Hermione were, if I’d come back to get help…and I had to tell the truth. That I just…left. The more I remember it, the more it doesn’t even feel like me. Its like…a bad dream, or a story I heard,” Ron said.  
“We really do understand,” Hermione said.  
“You keep saying that, but how could you, Mione? You’re braver than me, you’d never leave someone who needed you,” Ron said.  
“I’m not perfect. And, I know that you didn’t leave the mission, and you didn’t leave me, or Harry. You were trying to leave behind how you feel,” Hermione said. “It all just came to the surface, didn’t it? I suppose we always had so much to be getting on with, didn’t we? But, its time that we talked, all three of us.”  
Harry wasn’t sure what to say, because he wasn’t sure how he felt. There was the little boy he had met on the Hogwarts Express, eager to share whatever he had, be it corned beef sandwiches, answers to homework, or his home and family, then there was the Ron who tried to steal the attention of adults interested in Harry, who exaggerated and told ad nauseum any interesting story involving himself that seemed applicable, who had been spoiling for girls and glory during their last year at school, and who had Apparated away from Harry with a loud, thunderclap ‘pop’ that seemed to be the very sound of their friendship severing in half.  
On the other hand, Harry didn’t have any other friends. Well, of course Hermione didn’t stop being his friend now that she was more than his friend…but, he didn’t know how exactly they would navigate that. It had been a non-issue with Ginny-they had never exactly been friends, more like asteroids orbiting around the same moon in a loose belt.   
Simply put, the rightness of being Ron’s friend was compellingly outweighing the wrongness of staying angry or feeling hard done by.   
“You must think the same of me that Gin does. That I’m a coward,” Ron said.  
“No. I don’t think that,” Harry said. “Even if you can face danger from the outside, sometimes its hard to face yourself, and how you really feel.”  
Ron nodded. He turned to Hermione, and said, “I should have told you that I love you. I’m telling you now. Is it too late? Are you angry at me?”  
“Ron… I think I would have loved to hear this when we were 14,” Hermione said. “I fancied you terribly! I did…but, when we decided not to go back to school, when we were out in the forest, it wasn’t school, anymore. We weren’t playing this game of catch and evade, ‘he loves me, he loves me not’. It was the real world, and it stripped us of what was superficial, left only what was real.”  
“So, my feelings aren’t real?” Ron asked.  
“Of course they are! But, so are mine, and I’m in love with Harry!” Hermione said.  
Harry’s belly flooded with molten happiness, and he fought the urge to smile.   
“The more I wore the locket…I just couldn’t watch it. I always knew, but it bothered me more,” Ron said.  
“That makes sense. It brings out all your unhappiness, amplifies it, makes it worse. Like, the diary made Ginny’s loneliness and isolation worse, when she was possessed,” Harry said. “and the ring made Dumbledore ill. Ron, we know that it wasn’t all you.”  
“I hope you don’t feel that, at one point, I didn’t truly return your feelings. I think we were as attracted to each other as two socially awkward boarding school pariahs can be…we just grew up a bit,” Hermione said.  
Ron laughed, and said, “Well, I don’t think we’d work, anyway. It would be a valiant effort at couples therapy, then divorce court, for us. Harry does everything you say, so that’s more your speed.” Harry didn’t take offense-the light danced in Ron’s blue eyes, and he was clearly joking.  
“He does not!” Hermione protested, and hit Ron’s shoulder. They both laughed, and then hugged, glad that the status quo had been restored. “I’m going to go change into some warmer clothes. Go eat some Christmas dinner.”  
Hermione finally went upstairs to the room that Hannah had offered.  
“Have you snogged, then?” Ron asked.  
Harry hesitated, but then gave a shrug, nod combination that was meant to neither confirm, deny, or imply, and yet sufficiently answer.  
Ron sighed.   
“Talk to Gin, yet?” he asked.  
“You saw me talk to Ginny,” Harry said.  
“Yeah, but, you know, about…all this. The state of things,” Ron said.  
“Right. Yeah, no,” Harry said.  
They both sighed, mutually pondering the differences between ‘like’ and ‘love’, what was hardest to say, ‘I love you’ or ‘I’m over you’. However, as Harry looked around the small church basement, at the thin, scraggly, sapling pine Christmas tree and live garland and mistletoe, at the wearied and harassed faces he had seen upon entering now smiling in cheerful conversations as life went on in the midst of war, he realized that these were small problems, and he, Hermione, Ginny, and Ron were blessed to still have each other in their lives, no matter who was or was not in love with whom. It was Christmas, and they were alive.


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry celebrates Christmas with the refugees, learns more from Remus, and has a talk with Ginny

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope that you are all enjoying the story and how it is unfolding!
> 
> The lyrics to "Happy Christmas (War is Over)" are 100% John Lennon and Yoko Ono.

As dinner wound down, the guests in the church basement gathered around the Christmas tree and sang carols. Hannah switched off the lights, leaving only the white strings of lights strewn around the pine boughs glowing like fireflies paused in flight in the dark room. The scant lights shone on everyone’s faces, and their joy burned through the lines of worry, lit their eyes with peace that replaced the haunted look Harry had seen in their eyes when they first entered.  
Ron’s blue eyes held the light like bits of sunshine tossed on deep blue ocean waves, while Ginny’s held it in their amber depths like trapped dragonflies in a prehistoric mold. The Christmas tree light made Hermione look restored to health, young and beautiful, and lit her face with peaceful radiance. Her dark eyes held the light and it shone like stars, leading the way across a desert, as she sang, with everyone else, “Oh Christmas tree/oh, Christmas tree/ how evergreen your branches.”  
This was followed by “Silent Night”, “Gloria In Excelsis Deo”, and all the voices joined as one felt like a protective energy that grew and grew, and was big enough to embrace them all.  
“How about ‘Happy Christmas, War is Over?” Something to hope for,” Remus said.  
“I don’t know that one,” Harry said.  
Even when he had lived as a Muggle, his brushes with pop culture were limited to what he overheard people talk about at school, and what Vernon, Petunia, and Dudley liked. Even by 11, he had figured out that they were hopelessly square, and there must be more to life than reruns of “Last of the Summer Wine”, and the Bay City Rollers cassette Aunt Petunia played in the car. As much as he still didn’t know about being a wizard, he felt he was missing quite as many gaps in his knowledge of being a Muggle. Maybe it was just being a person, full stop, that Harry didn’t know very much about.  
“That’s all right,” Hermione said, and started off, “ ‘And so this is Christmas/ and what have you done/ another year over/ and a new one just begun…”  
Harry didn’t know the song, nor the lyrics, but those who did sang along with Hermione, and those who didn’t could at least chime in with all their hope and conviction when they reached the refrain, “War is over/ if you want it/ war is over/ Happy Christmas.”  
It was so simple, but so profound. The war would, indeed, be over, if everyone, on both sides, stopped fighting. If Voldemort could be at peace being Tom Riddle, if his Death Eaters lost their own urge to annihilate, and if the other side could be at peace there need be no opposition, no reaction, no Order of the Phoenix. The deaths and hunger and fear could end, and everyone in the church basement could reemerge into a free and peaceful world, have lives again. Although time seemed to slow down and still to perfect peace on Christmas, outside the war still went on. While they sang, “War is over”, however, for the span of the breath it took to sing, it felt true, or as if it could be true.  
When the song was over, there was a pause like a communally held breath, and then everyone clapped. They hugged, some faces wet with tears. Harry and Hermione hugged, then Harry and Ron, Ron and Hermione, Ginny and Harry, Hermione and Ginny…Remus hugged everyone, at least twice. He seemed to be having quite an emotional evening, and Harry gave him a fortifying pat on the back. He felt a hand on his arm, and turned to see Hermione, who seemed to want a private word. She was wearing a white blouse beneath a Swiss sweater, corduroy pants and no shoes, just socks patterned with pumpkins. They walked across the cold basement floor, to the small staircase that led back up to the church.  
“It will end one day. It has to,” Hermione said.  
“Yeah. But, how? Now that the Horcrux is out of me, what now?” Harry said.  
“At least now you don’t have this belief that you have to die to save us all. What we think, we tend to manifest,” Hermione said, and reached for his hand.  
“I want to live. When we were alone, in our house…I felt like I had a real life for the first time. It wasn’t like Hogwarts, or Ron’s house…or the Dursleys,” Harry said.  
“Because it was ours’,” Hermione whispered, and their eyes met.  
The air between them was cold. The church was an old, stone building, and those are not known for their warmth in winter. When they exhaled, their breath became visible, in cool, pellucid little puffs. Hermione moved closer, and Harry gently brushed his lips against hers’.  
“Can you see it?” Hermione whispered, and Harry knew at once what she meant.  
He closed his eyes, and saw the little sitting room with the warm fire, the books on their shelves, their Wellingtons, macs, and umbrellas…everything was precious. These were the children of their dreams, and their dreams were immortal.  
Their kiss was warm, but deep and languid.  
“This is still a bloody church, you two!” Ron said, with playful outrage. Harry was more sure than ever that the Ron who had abandoned them was one in the Horcrux’s thrall-the real Ron knew how to cut his losses and make the best of a disappointment, if nothing else, and was something of a pragmatist-that was why Hermione’s insights into the emotions of others baffled him, for emotions were hidden and wily things. Ron had done the same math as Harry when they entered the church, that this was a new beginning, and once they accepted the past and facts, there was no going back.  
Remus, on the other hand, looked as bemused as all former teachers do when two of their former students grow up and turn out to be a ‘love match’: as if it was a joyful reminder of time’s passage, sort of cute, and surprising but not such a surprise, at all.  
“Ugh, you’re right. Bad form,” Hermione said, with an embarrassed grimace.  
“Don’t apologize. Dumbledore always said that love is a magic of its own, and far more powerful than any wizard’s enchantment,” Remus said.  
Harry thought of how he had angrily rejected this teaching of Dumbledore’s. He’d thought the headmaster would have advanced charms and defense measures to teach him, not all of the elusive and obscure magic he had amassed in his long life, but some cutting edge and powerful measure to defeat Voldemort. To be told that his great power was love had been a disappointment. He loved his parents, but he could never have them back. He loved Sirius, but that had not been able to clear his name or stop Bellatrix’s curse. He loved the Weasleys, but he could not be one of them...love had been like one of the Creevey brothers, a well-meaning nuisance kid so decent you loathed to tell him to piss off, but it really needed to be done.  
But, then he’d built a house out of love and dreams with Hermione, and sharing that small sliver of life with her after Ron left had shown him that love really was powerful, after all.  
“And, to that I’ll add,” Remus continued, “a bit of Victor Hugo: ‘To love another person is to see the face of God.’”  
“Amen,” Ron said cheekily, earning him laughter from Remus, Harry, and Hermione.  
“Professor Lupin, can I have a word with you, upstairs?” Harry asked.  
“Of course,” Remus said, and they went up to the church. Harry had never been to one-the Dursleys left him with Mrs. Figg when they went to church on Sundays, and he associated the day with dust, cats, and fruitcake. He didn’t know what to call any of the parts of the room, but he could tell that it was a simplistic space: stone walls, oak wood pews and a podium on the dais. The only grandeur the room boasted was two stained glass windows, one which depicted a white dove of peace which reminded Harry of his and Hermione’s Patronus, the caladrius, and another which mystified him-a large white seabird pecking at its breast, sprouting crimson beads of blood that smaller, young birds were eagerly drinking.  
Remus saw Harry looking at it with a frown, and explained, “That’s a pelican. Medieval legend had it that the pelicans pecked at their breasts and fed their young with their own blood. It was a metaphor for devotion and sacrifice, often employed as a reference to Queen Elizabeth I-the queen who sacrificed marriage to rule her country alone. Or, so she would have had people believe. I have my suspicions that she preferred the single life. She certainly had her reasons.”  
“Yeah?” Harry asked.  
“Her father had her mother beheaded, and there’s reason to believe she was sexually abused by her guardian, the former Queen Katherine Parr’s, husband as a young girl,” Remus said.  
“That’s bloody awful,” Harry said. “so, that pelican, does it mean the church was built when she was queen? That would make it pretty old.”  
“And the associations with this spot and refuge or sanctuary are doubtlessly even older. You know, in the Alps and Eastern Europe, its believed that witches and wizards have a sacred duty to protect non-magical people from dark magical forces. These people are called, in Italy, the Benandante: ‘those who do good,’. I think that a similar belief system at one time existed in Godric’s Hollow,” Remus said. "People like Hannah have kept it alive, and are offering refuge to people escaping Voldemort."  
“Really?” Harry said."So, they look after Muggles, here, instead of hiding from them?"  
“Its not too implausible, considering that the Kurgan invasions, of Eastern European nomadic conquerors, disrupted a civilization that flourished across Europe, and had an emphasis on healing and peaceful co-existence, with deep connections to the earth and shamanic practices that, even to the non-magical archaeological eye, look like early forms of magical practice,” Remus said.  
“Um…what?” Harry said.  
Remus smiled bemusedly. “I went on a bit too fast. What I mean is, that in Europe’s earliest days, its culture was agrarian, egalitarian, and people had a deep respect for the earth and knowledge of its healing properties. People revered those who could do magic, they were healers and leaders. But, where there is light, there are also shadows casting darkness. Everything has its opposite, and where there were witches and wizards who wanted to help others, there were dark wizards, too. Those Who Do Good took on and inherited a sacred charge to protect those who could do no magic at all. Of course, as Europe became subdued by the Roman Empire, these beliefs were garbled and relegated to corners of what had once been a shared belief that spanned continents. You find the belief in Those Who Do Good in Italy, in Estonia, in Slovenia, Austria, and as close as we are to Cornwall, here, I think Godric’s Hollow must have picked up some kind of Celtic holdout of the older culture,” Remus said.  
“So, in Godric’s Hollow, witches and wizards protect Muggles from dark magic?” Harry said.  
“Generally. And, in most dire times, there are sanctuaries like this, throughout the village, that house those witches and wizards who are targets of Voldemort, or wish to hide from him,” Remus said.  
“I guess that’s why my dad joined the Order of the Phoenix?” Harry asked.  
“James was very protective by nature. You know, Harry, I don’t know if you remember this, but, a couple of years ago, you Floo called me and Sirius, and you were very upset about something you had seen James do in a memory of Snape’s?” Remus said.  
Of course Harry remembered. He nodded.  
“I never felt like we had properly answered your questions,” Remus said.  
“I didn’t feel like I even properly asked it. I wasn’t so good with feelings and stuff, back then,” Harry said.  
Remus smiled, and said, “All the same, I think I know what you were trying to ask. You wanted to know if your father was a decent man.”  
“Everyone always said that I was just like him, and I thought that was a good thing. But, what I saw, in that memory…I know what its like to be bullied, and humiliated in front of other people, and laughed at. I didn’t think he was like that,” Harry said.  
Lupin sighed. “We were misguided. Tensions were high between Gryffindor and Slytherin students, then. Slytherin had always had a certain dark allure, but moreso one of esoteric and arcane magic, than strictly malevolent. It was the house of Merlin, and historically wizards from Slytherin have always, to borrow from Roddenberry, ‘boldly gone where no wizard has gone before.’”  
“So, they just wanted to be as great as Merlin, do rare magic and get glory?” Harry asked.  
“Traditionally. But, by our time, it was well known that many of the men surrounding Voldemort had been students of Slytherin house, and Voldemort himself appealed to those who believe in Nottian blood purity ideals,” Remus said.  
“Nottian?” Harry asked. His head was spinning, a bit.  
“Cantankerus Nott, who compiled the Sacred 28-a list of the most pure Wizarding bloodlines in Britain. The Blacks were on it, the Malfoys, the Weasleys-by the skin of their teeth-your family was left off for your great-grandfather’s radical beliefs, I’m afraid,” Remus said, and Harry laughed. Remus continued, “It was all an unfortunate confluence of belief: many current and former Hogwarts students in Slytherin house had been raised on blood purity ideals, but the imperative of their house had also been to achieve greatness. Voldemort skillfully manipulated both drives, with himself at the center: ‘to be pureblood is to be great, follow me and purebloods will have a clear path to greatness’.”  
“So, my dad hated Snape because he believed all of that?” Harry said.  
“Well, he certainly had a set of friends, who did…and he was quite well versed in dark magic…but, I sometimes think that we hastened Severus’s descent by assuming that he was a bad sort from the off. That’s how it was. I’m sure you’ve heard of gangs in America who identify themselves and each other by wearing certain colors, and in the wrong territory they can be a provocation. I wonder if school colors are really any different,” Remus said.  
“You mean him and Snape just hated each other because one was a Slytherin, and one was a Gryffindor?” Harry said.  
“Yes. I make no excuses, but those were the times. And, I think in James’s mind, there was honor behind it. If someone chose to be a dark wizard, obviously they were a hopeless case and deserved what they got. But, we were just kids-we hadn’t really made any choices, yet. We were miming the rivalries and divisions of adults, and fighting each other when the uncertainty of the war torn world awaiting us outside of Hogwarts became unbearable,” Remus said.  
“He’s made his choices, now,” Harry said bitterly.  
“Yes, but as I said, don’t we rather hasten someone down a wrong path, by assuming its all they are capable of? Your mother…she was a better person than us, by far,” Remus said.  
“I don’t know about that,” Harry said.  
Remus’s eyes widened.  
“You hold being Snape’s friend against her?” Remus asked.  
“Not exactly, no…but, I think in its own way, its not unselfish at all to take up for someone and give them chances when you have feelings for them,” Harry said. “Its quite selfish, in a way, because you’ve got an objective, to keep them around you. Its not noble, really. It might bring a lot of courage and forgiveness and compassion out of you, but you want something out of it, don’t you?”  
“I don’t think I ever heard anything so cynical ever leave James’s mouth. He was…sometimes a bit naieve, combined with that rather pigheaded about what he had chosen to believe, but all with a very pure spirit. Like a Victorian, I suppose, all fired up on Tennyson’s version of the Knights of the Round Table,” Remus said.  
“Funny you bring that up,” Harry said, and unwound the tale of Morgana to Remus. It turned out that Sirius had already informed him before decamping to Ireland.  
“I suppose you weren’t wrong, in referencing ‘Highlander’-as far as schlocky 80s movies go, this one provides a serviceably succinct metaphor. If Voldemort does know that you are connected by blood, then to his mind, there can be only one,” Remus said.  
“How did he find out?” Harry asked.  
“That’s my fault, Harry. I didn’t get here fast enough,” Hannah said.  
She had a bit of her old unsure look in her blue eyes, but with a sobering hint of sadness suffusing her face, making her look older, and more serious.  
“What do you mean, Hannah?” Harry asked, as he and Remus turned to her.  
“That’s why he wanted my mum. What he took off her, before he killed her. We run the pub here, the Dog, Roebuck and Lapwing-always have, my mum’s family. Its gone to me, now, and we’re looking after people, there, too. But, he wanted the Chronicle,” Hannah said.  
“What’s the Chronicle?” Harry asked.  
“We look after people who need help, my family, here at the church, where my uncle’s the bishop, and at the Dog, Roebuck, and Lapwing, but we keep records, of all the wizard families. Like a family Bible that’s gone on since William the Conqueror, basically. He wanted to see your family’s part of the Chronicle ,to trace you back to your ancestors,” Hannah said.  
“He was looking for a connection. It all comes down to blood, with Voldemort. The prophecy wasn’t enough-he wanted to know what sort of man his foe was. He was probably tipped off that there was a connection by your shared ability to speak to snakes, or perhaps the fact that you came from Godric’s Hollow,” Remus said.  
“Yeah, but he only has the book. All our house is the Chronicle, you just have to know how to look at it,” Hannah said.  
“What do you mean?” Harry asked.  
“How about you and Hermione and Ron come with me, and I can show you? I know you three usually do this sort of thing together,” Hannah said.  
“What sort of thing?” Harry asked.  
“You know: get into trouble, save everyone from Voldemort,” Hannah said. Remus barely held in a laugh.  
“Yeah, sure, I’ll go get them. Oh, and Hannah, do you know what this symbol could mean?” Harry asked, and on the dust of an unused pew he drew the triangle, line, and circle symbol.  
Hannah frowned, and said, “Oh, yeah. That’s the Peverell symbol. Its always there: whenever their name crops up, so does that little symbol. What’s it mean, then?”  
“Dunno,” Harry said. “It was on a book Dumbledore left me, and on this ring that belonged to Voldemort’s grandfather, and on one of the graves here.”  
“I knew it! Dumbledore did tell you the secret of how to defeat Voldemort!” Hannah said excitedly.  
“Dumbledore was more the sort to set you a challenge that you had to figure out for yourself, than tell you a secret,” Harry said.  
“In a situation like this…isn’t that kind of cruel?” Hannah said.  
Harry blinked. He had never put that feeling into such pragmatic terms, but he had felt a suspicion of such sentiments himself.  
“I’m sure it was meant only in a spirit of caution, Hannah. Dumbledore planned for the eventuality of our carrying on the fight in the event of his death, but surely he did so with an inkling that if that event had occurred, things were most dire,” Remus said, with the same unwavering faith that Hermione had when she talked about Dumbledore.  
“Well, the Peverells are all wiped out, anyway. Mum had to keep track of that sort of thing, which families had all died out, which were still living and where they’d gone to,” Hannah said. “I’ll show you, up at our place.”  
“All right,” Harry said, and went back down to the basement. Hermione’s eyes found his, and Ginny looked over at him, too. It was Ginny who came over to him, and Harry felt slightly irked-he was sure that a deep talk was coming, and he suddenly felt exhausted.  
“Happy Christmas. Don’t know if I told you before,” Ginny said gruffly.  
“Yeah, Happy Christmas,” Harry responded. “So, you and Ron aren’t at home, for the holidays…”  
“Yeah, well, my Mum’s staying with Auntie Muriel for the moment. Our house is a little hot, you know? Its common knowledge what side all my family’s on,” Ginny said matter of factly. “Must be the first time the place has been empty since Victoria was queen. The gnomes are rejoicing. Don’t they always give you this nasty look, like the place should be theirs’?”  
Harry laughed.  
“What about your dad? And all your brothers?” Harry said.  
Ginny filled him in: Bill was on a mission in Mongolia, Charlie in the Carpathian Mountains, training dragon riders for the possibility of an aerial war, Percy had seen the light and was spying on the inside for the Order, Fred and George were, as they put it, “doing America”, infiltrating and trying to enlist help from an enclave of magicians in Las Vegas.  
“What’s the difference between a wizard and a magician?” Harry asked.  
“Well, its sort of complicated and loosely defined,” Ginny said. “A magician could be a wizard who’s decided to do magic for Muggles for money, or a Muggle who’s taught themselves a bit of magic. If they use magical objects, or make potions, they can actually get quite far, but of course some people like to pretend such a thing doesn’t happen. If anyone can get that crowd to eat out of their hands, its Fred and George. I think they were born for Vegas.”  
“And, what about Ron?” Harry asked.  
“He’s over there,” Ginny said gruffly.  
“Gin…if I can forgive him, and Hermione can, no one else can hold what happened against, him can they? We know what its like to have Voldemort in your head,” Harry said.  
Ginny sighed. “Look, I meant what I said. He always wants to be given a chance, and then he fucks it up when he gets one. I would have been more use to you.”  
“Its not a competition,” Harry said. “I didn’t take Ron because I like him better, or something.”  
‘And, I’m not your mother,’ Harry thought, but held that one in. He'd always wished for siblings, but he wouldn't like a rivalry such as Ron and Ginny had-it was exhausting enough from the outside looking in.  
“I know. I guess I’ve just given a lot of thought, over the years, to what it would be like, to be the one by your side,” Ginny said.  
“Yeah, well…” was the best response Harry could muster, and he wasn’t sure what he was trying to convey.  
“But, I never really was there, was I? You forgot I was there when I was around. I had to remind you, convince you, argue with you, to get you to take me with you or let me in, and even then…it never made us as close as you, and Ron, and Hermione. Do you remember when you and Malfoy had that duel, and Hermione was furious with you for using that cutting curse on him?” Ginny said.  
“Yeah,” Harry admitted reluctantly.  
Ginny sighed. “It was the first time I had ever seen you two like that and…it was like the seconds before you catch the Snitch. You can see the arc between your hand and the ball, you know the shape you’ve gotta make to get it. I knew that all I had to do to get you to look at me was to say that you were right, and she was wrong. So, that’s what I did. And I was right…we started going around together after that. But…it wasn’t really what I thought. It was just what I had to do to win. But, I didn’t feel like I had won anything, really. You don’t win, when you lie to yourself, and everyone else.”  
“You should have told me, Gin. I could have handled it, if you’d told me the truth,” Harry said.  
“I didn’t know the truth, myself, at first. I wanted so many things out of you, Harry. But, that’s not the same as liking someone, or knowing them. I feel like I wasted everyone’s time,” Ginny said.  
As Hermione had told him, he told Ginny, “We were just kids. No harm, no foul, right? And, we’re still friends.”  
“Yeah,” Ginny said, with a steady smile, “we can be friends, now.”  
Harry realized that he and Ginny had done the same thing: just as his desire for a family had been projected onto her, because she was a Weasley, she had channeled her desire for adventure, intrigue, and comradery into what she thought was a crush on him. Now, the air between them felt clearer.


	19. Chapter 19

Harry ushered Hermione and Ron to him, and filled them and Ginny in on the information that Hannah and Lupin had delivered.  
“Those Who Do Good…” Hermione said thoughtfully. “Ron, Ginny, you live not far away: have you ever heard of such a thing?”  
“You know we don’t really mix with Muggles. Not out of any kind of prejudice, mind-Mum just says that an ounce of prevention is worth two in the bush. I think the other families round our way-the Lovegoods, the Diggorys-are about the same,” Ron said.  
“Some people do little crafts here and there, for Muggles they trust. You know, some Divination, some herbalism, but you’ve got to dress it up and make it all seem New Age: hobbit holes in Glastonbury, flute music and black velvet paintings, you know? You can get away with hiding magic in plain sight if you dress it up the way Muggles expect magic to look. But, I think its just a living for people who do that, its not some kind of duty,” Ginny said.  
“Hmm,” Hermione said. “Then, I’d guess it’s a cultural remnant unique to Godric’s Hollow, straddled as it is between the English West Country and Celtic Cornwall. There is some evidence that the most ancient Celtic ancestors came from Asia Minor and the Mediterranean, which would place them in the civilization Professor Lupin was talking about: Old Europe, before the Kurgan invasion. The English wizards in this village picked up the Celtic beliefs, and held onto them. Hannah will be able to tell us more.”  
“Yeah, but what about all this Last Heir of Merlin stuff?” Ron said. “You think Voldemort believes it?”  
“He believed it enough to kill Hannah’s mum, to get his hands on the Chronicle,” Harry said, and the three others looked grave.  
“What d’you reckon the Peverell symbol has to do with it all?” Ron asked.  
Harry got the feeling that Ron was trying to be helpful and seem involved, but he was going a bit overboard in his desire to appear contrite and perfectly okay with Harry and Hermione’s relationship. Or, maybe it was just being back on home turf-strange experiences and new environments have a way of tossing us into the heart of them so thoroughly that we adapt to them rapidly, and home is what seems foreign. The Ether had been full of dangers and challenges, with few consolations, but he had gotten used to the momentum. It had, in some ways, been a welcome respite from the puzzle of Dumbledore’s last wishes. If the Peverell sign was important, why had he not explained how? Why bequeath to Harry a sword that he could not access, a book of fairy tales to Hermione, and a trinket to Ron? How did any of this relate to Horcruxes? These questions, Harry realized, made him not only frustrated, but angry, and not with Ron, but with Dumbledore.  
“Dumbledore was from here, right? Maybe the Peverells were relatives of his, and there’s some hidden object in their vault, or their house, or beneath that grave you two saw. And the symbol is like, ‘x marks the spot’ on a pirate’s map,” Ginny said.  
Harry got the sense that she, too, was longing to prove her usefulness, perhaps as a strike against Ron, her brother and rival. Harry had never noticed how important winning was to the Weasleys, but perhaps he should have: Fred, George, Ron, Ginny, and Charlie before them had all been avid Quidditch players. He had been so immersed in school sports, himself, that he had taken their killer instinct as a matter of course. It wasn’t a bad thing, but he realized that he had gotten used to just going over things with Hermione, who certainly held her ground when she thought she had the best theory, but seldom talked just to be heard.  
“I don’t know if the Peverells have a vault,” Harry said honestly.  
“And, Dumbledore wasn’t originally from Godric’s Hollow. His family moved here after his father’s imprisonment, from Mould-On-the-Wall, precisely because they had no prior connection to the village and no one here knew of his father’s crimes, or his sister’s illness,” Hermione said, and Harry marveled that she had had time to read any of Rita Skeeter’s book over the course of their travels.  
“Sister? Dumbledore had a sister?” Ginny asked.  
“Ariana,” Harry said.  
He had never said the girl’s name out loud, before. It felt meaningful and heavy in his mouth, and he felt that he had betrayed a secret. A secret child…something about family secrets bond one with those keeping it, and Harry felt keenly that he had betrayed Dumbledore’s confidence. However, he also felt a kinship he hardly dared even name with Ariana herself-a child who was different, kept out of sight, locked away. The Dumbledore Harry thought he had known would have liberated Ariana, helped her somehow, not locked her away…but, then he reflected that that had not been the Headmaster’s modus operandi. No matter how acutely miserable he had known they were, he had kept Harry and Sirius locked away, out of sight, and arranged for the same to be done to Lupin every full moon when he was a schoolboy…that seemed to be how Dumbledore dealt with tricky individuals, and it seemed that that began at home, that he had learned from his mother.  
Where had Those Who Do Good been, then?  
Harry had been pulled from his reverie by a hand on his shoulder. Hermione. He would know her in the dark, he didn’t have to guess twice at whose touch it was.  
“Harry,” she said quietly, “let’s take one last look at your parents, before we go to Hannah’s. Ron, can you go up to the church, and tell Hannah that we’ll be along?”  
Ron, ready to make it up to his friends, probably would have placed an order for an elephant at Harrod’s if Hermione had asked him. “Come on, Gin,” he said, and the two Weasleys departed for the stairs ahead of Hermione and Harry. Ginny and Ron went to Hannah and Lupin, while Harry and Hermione continued into the snowy night.  
“I love the sky in the countryside! Its such a deep, true blue, not black. And even with the snow clouds, you can see a few, scant stars,” Hermione enthused.  
Harry remembered that she had not been wearing shoes, before, and looked down to make sure she was not walking in the snow on stocking feet. He was relieved to see that she was wearing Ugg boots, probably pulled out of her neverending reticule.  
“Not too many stars on Elgin Crescent?” he asked.  
“No…but it’s a very convenient walk to Kensington Gardens,” she said.  
Harry almost laughed. She was so posh, sometimes. “So, do your parents take you there?”  
“Yes, but I far prefer the gardens at Buckingham Palace, and Hampstead Heath park,” she said. “There are a lot of truly tranquil places in London, but its not quite like this.”  
“I guess I would have grown up here, if…you know,” Harry said.  
“Can you imagine it?” Hermione asked.  
“Being here…its like I can feel this other life around the corner. Somewhere, out of sight, this parallel life is happening, and it’s the way things should have been. Driving me a bit bonkers, really,” Harry said.  
“That’s understandable. Sometimes, when I’m at home in London, and I walk by my old school, I wonder what it would have been like, to have been a Muggle, to have never developed magical powers, and gone to Hogwarts,” Hermione said. “The Portuguese call it saudade: the lingering hold on our imagination and emotions that ‘what could have been’ continues to have on us.”  
“It’s a good thing they’ve got one word for all of that,” Harry said. “be a mouthful, otherwise.”  
Hermione laughed, but said, “Everyone feels a bit of saudade on Christmas.”  
“Funny that it kind of comes at the gloomiest time of year,” Harry said.  
“Well, it’s a celebration of light, really. Ancient pagans all across Europe celebrated the Solstice because it was the longest day of the year, a spot of light in the bleak midwinter. The Catholic Church inaugurated the celebration of Christ’s birth because, to their minds, the birth of Christ was an advent of hope in a troubled world, just as the long evening of the Solstice was a spot of sun in the middle of winter’s darkness. It was symbolic,” Hermione said.  
“Seems people thought in symbols, back then,” Harry said, as they walked amongst the graves, thinking of the Peverell symbol, and the pelican on the church window.  
“Sadly, most people couldn’t read. But, pictures and holidays, stories and traditions gave even the illiterate a way to understand the world, communicate news, and perpetuate beliefs and values,” Hermione said. “and, secret societies used symbols they knew the average person wouldn’t be able to understand, to communicate clandestine things in plain sight. I’ve been thinking, what if the Peverell symbol has something to do with alchemy?”  
“Alchemy? Like, the Philosopher’s Stone?” Harry asked.  
This idea made him feel hopeful. Of course! Dumbledore was an Alchemist, and his friend, Nicholas Flamel, had been, too. But, they were both dead…why leave Harry a clue that there was no one alive to elucidate.  
“Yes,” Hermione said. “None of the Runes I studied at Hogwarts or the ones in the books on Runes I brought match it, but what if its an Alchemical symbol? I never took that class, maybe that’s why I didn’t recognize it.”  
“What? A class you didn’t take?” Harry said, with jocular skepticism.  
“I don’t entirely approve of Alchemy. What could be more vainglorious than the pursuit of eternal life, and boundless wealth? I don’t really have any interest in either,” Hermione said primly.  
“Dumbledore didn’t seem to, either. He told me that to a well-organized mind, death was just another adventure,” he said.  
“Then he was the rare man who could face temptation and remain true to his purpose,” Hermione said.  
“You have so much faith in him. So does Lupin,” Harry said.  
“You don’t?” Hermione asked, and stopped walking.  
“Hermione…” Harry began.  
“You know Rita Skeeter, Harry! She’s vile! Whatever she insinuated about Dumbledore…she twists facts! Look at what she said about you and me. Neither of us were interested in each other, at that time-we were just 14! But by her account, I was flitting between you and Viktor like a regular Lady Chatterley! She takes a bit of truth, and twists it into her sensationalist stories! Dumbledore loved you!” Hermione insisted passionately.  
“How do you know? How can I know that? He left me! Year, after year, at the Dursleys! He must have known what they were, but he hardly cared to find out! He knew I had a bit of him…a part of his disgusting soul inside of me, but he couldn’t face me, and tell me that…and when he was starting to trust me, to let me in, to help me get rid of the Horcruxes…” Harry said, faltering, when he realized that he was shouting amongst the quiet, snowy abode of the dead.  
“He left you,” Hermione said. “You hate him, for leaving you.”  
“YES!” Harry said, the word leaving his mouth almost involuntarily, and then he sighed, feeling exhausted, almost as drained as when Sirius had freed him of the Horcrux within him.  
“Harry…that’s normal. Anger is one of the five stages of grief. Deep down, you know Dumbledore didn’t want to leave you-but you hate that he’s not here. Rita’s accursed book has muddied those waters, made it twice as painful, but those doubts about his integrity wouldn’t have seeped in if you didn’t already need a target for this anger,” Hermione said.  
“Of course he didn’t want to get murdered by Snape…but he left me before that,” Harry said.  
“People make mistakes, Harry! But, he was trying to fix it, at the end. He did let you in, and shared everything he knew with you about Voldemort,” Hermione said.  
Harry had to acknowledge that this was true, but his heart was still hammering, and his breathing was labored.  
“I know,” he said. “I don’t know where all of this is coming from. I don’t think this is saudade, anymore.”  
“Its grief, which is intense at Christmas,” Hermione said.  
“I shouldn’t have yelled,” Harry said. “It wasn’t really at you, Hermione…”  
She took his hand, and looked reassuringly into his eyes.  
“I understand you, Harry. And you don’t have to pretend, with me, or hold anything back,” she said.  
Harry felt instantly relieved. But, just because Hermione was compassionate, didn’t mean he could repay her with raging and aggression. He knew he had to do better, really take her words to heart, and resolve these feelings about Dumbledore. Harry tucked a stray, sandy curl behind Hermione’s ear, and leaned down to kiss her. Her lips were accepting and eager against his-she put so much subtle passion into every kiss, every touch, making him feel loved and wanted with just a tiny bit of force behind the way her lips moved, not quite leading the kiss but letting him know how she ardently wanted it. He felt frissons of heat even amidst the winter cold, and relished the feeling of her dancing fingertips walking along his jaw. They broke apart, and once again their breath appeared as pellucid clouds that quickly evanesced.  
“I miss my parents, the same way you miss Dumbledore…but, I can’t imagine what its like, knowing that you can never have him back,” Hermione said.  
Harry nodded. That was it, exactly. It was final, and hopeless. But, he wanted to bear up and keep going. He held onto Hermione’s hand, as they walked back to his parent’s grave, to the headstone of snow white marble.  
“He tried to save them. My parents. He did want me to live, to grow up here, for us to survive Voldemort,” Harry realized, as he read his parents’ names. “Things just didn’t work out that way.”  
“There were other factors, people actively working against them,” Hermione said. “But who knows how many days and warm moments all of their planning bought you. Every bit of time is precious…and those times with your family made you who you are. I can tell they loved you, Harry. I can feel it, somehow.”  
“I love you, Hermione,” Harry whispered.  
“I love you, too, Harry,” Hermione said.  
He hugged her close to him, and she only broke away to gather a handful of snow and turn it into a wreath of Glastonbury thorn blossoms, which she placed on the snow in front of the white marble headstone.


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hannah shows Harry vital information; Ginny faces an ordeal

Hannah led Harry, Hermione, Ron, Ginny, and Lupin down a snowy path in the woods. Icicles encased the spindliest of the bare trees’ branches, and their shoes made a crunching noise as they trod through the three-inch deep snow.  
“I’ve got something to tell you,” Harry said to Ron, and Hermione figured he was going to inform him of Morgana’s charge that Ron destroy the Horcrux.  
Like all of her challenges, Hermione figured this one would be character building. It was sure to boost Ron’s confidence to destroy the object that had possessed him. Despite his actions when he was possessed, Ron usually had a cool head in a crisis, and Hermione was sure that he would be able to vanquish the cursed object. Ginny, on the other hand, had not been bequeathed an object by Dumbledore, nor had she been tested by Morgana. In recent years, Ginny had begun to accompany them into dangerous situations, but these circumstances hadn’t chosen her in quite the same way as they had Harry, Ron, and Hermione. Even her possession by the Horcrux in the diary was happenstantial, she had been caught in the crossfire of the rivalry between Lucius Malfoy and her father, Arthur Weasley. Hermione wondered what that did to a person’s heart, to be constantly on the sidelines, or collateral damage. No wonder she had been pitching herself into the heart of the fray-she had something to prove, maybe more to herself than anyone.  
“Are you staring at me because you’re wondering if I hate you for being with Harry? I don’t; now, stop staring,” Ginny said bluntly.  
Lupin, Harry, Ron, and Hannah were far enough ahead on the path that they could speak freely.  
“Sorry! I wasn’t aware that I was doing it, I suppose I was lost in thought. Although, I am glad that you don’t hate me,” Hermione said.  
“I suppose it was bound to happen, the two of you,” Ginny said.  
“I was more surprised than anyone. In fact, I doubted his intentions at first,” Hermione said.  
“Harry? No, he’s not like that. Trust me, he’s not the kind of bloke who’s only after one thing,” Ginny said.  
“I know, yes, of course…but, I rather thought that you two would reconnect, when all this was over. That seemed more likely than…other outcomes. Than the current state of things,” Hermione said.  
Ginny sighed. “I think you’re the only person he can be himself around. There was something there, between us…but, a relationship is more than Quidditch and snogging. He was right, when he said it was like living someone else’s life when we were together. But, I don’t know if that’s a good thing.”  
“Was finally being with Harry a letdown, after years of wishing for it?” Hermione asked.  
Ginny shook her head. “No. I just don’t think he was himself with me. I think he wanted to be normal, so he was putting on an act. This ‘happy-go-lucky, joking around, snogging me in public’ persona that isn’t all there is to him. I don’t know who he was pretending to be,” she said.  
“I don’t think he was pretending, I think he was reaching for something,” Hermione said.  
“Yeah, but I always wanted the version of him that he shows you and Ron,” Ginny said. “I wanted all there was to him. I don’t think he can really give anyone else that, except for the two of you.”  
“Harry’s had a hard life, Ginny. That leaves a mark on a person,” Hermione said.  
“And you know how to handle it,” Ginny said.  
“I don’t handle Harry; I just know him,” Hermione said.  
“And, he lets you,” Ginny said.  
Hermione looked apologetic, and Ginny quickly said, “Look, Hermione, before you get some kind of complex about all this, just don’t all right? We all have bigger fish to fry, these days. If there are more things like the diary out there, then we have to find them all and destroy them before someone else does, and it makes them do terrible things. Those things…they just fill you up with darkness, and your whole soul goes to sleep. You aren’t yourself. You’re a shell, filled to the brim with him.”  
“Of course defeating Voldemort is top priority, but pardon me if our friendship is a matter of some importance to me, as well! Ginny, you’re like my sister! I couldn’t live with myself if my being with Harry caused you any pain,” Hermione said.  
“Hermione, that’s not who I am, anymore. I told myself that it never felt right with any other boy because I never got over Harry…but, it didn’t feel right with him, either. We’re not so different, me and him, I think. When you’ve had Voldemort’s hands all over your life, its hard to let go and let people in. Except I haven’t got any friends like you and Ron to show me how to love someone, even a little. The two of us, me and Harry, trying to hold each other through armor…that wasn’t going to work out. I want to be apart of something, and give my all to it,” Ginny said.  
“Like Quidditch, and Dumbledore’s Army, and helping Hannah here in Godric’s Hollow,” Hermione said.  
“Yeah,” Ginny said. “I need to feel like I’ve won at something. I need to win myself back from Tom.”  
Hermione hugged Ginny. “I think you’re farther along than you know, Ginny. You are free of him.”  
“No. None of us are. Not yet,” Ginny said. She had a far off look in her eye. Hermione let the sound of footsteps in snow fill the silence, and then asked,  
“What was it like, at Hogwarts? I can’t imagine Snape as Headmaster,” Hermione said.  
Ginny looked up at the others, to gauge how far ahead they were, and paused.  
“Hermione…he told me things. Snape. About himself. Things I think Harry needs to hear, but I don’t know how he’s going to react. Well, its Harry, so I think I know exactly how he’s going to react: it’s going to be loud,” Ginny said.  
Hermione said nothing, but whatever the news was, she wasn’t sure that Ginny’s estimate was accurate. After she had nearly died from eating the spiked fruit, something in Harry had changed. He was less heated and impetuous, he no longer raged at things he didn’t like or that opposed him with fury, or charge them out of his way-he colorfully objected, but Hermione didn’t mind a little sassiness. He was, however, actively trying to temper his rage, like apologizing for yelling at her in the throws of his grief in the graveyard. It made her think of the lyric of a David Bowie song her mum always liked: ‘Love dares us to change our way of caring about ourselves.’  
These reflections, and the events of the Ether, seemed too private to inform Ginny of, however. This, she now understood, was why the spouse was always the prime suspect in a disappearance of murder, and why politicians wives’ walked in a cloud of speculation when their husbands had a scandal: no one really knew what went on between a couple, and that is what she and Harry had become before she realized it. When they rescued Sirius and Buckbeak? When she helped him prepare for the TriWizard Tournament? When he agreed to her idea to clandestinely teach other students the self defense spells Umbridge had forbidden them to practice? She saw now why she had been so furious about his retreat into his symbiosis with the Half Blood Prince. Not only was it surely not to end well-and, it didn’t-but it was a rupture of the partnership and trust they had.  
All she said, out loud, was, “Is it something to do with Lily Potter?”  
Ginny’s amber brown eyes, which had no light to catch to flash their signature blazing look, widened. Her hair also looked darker in the snowy and icy forest, and Hermione was struck by her resemblance to Lily Potter-same thick, long red hair, schoolgirlishly tucked behind her ears.  
“Have you ever heard of moly?” Ginny asked.  
“The herb. It was used in antiquity as a sort of performance enhancer-wizards took it before casting a spell or performing a ritual, to amplify their abilities and the effect of their magic,’ Hermione answered readily.  
“Yeah, well, Snape’s been taking it like its going out of style,” Ginny said.  
Hermione gasped. “Its illegal!” she said. “the cultivation and distribution of moly was outlawed in the early 18th century!”  
Ginny rolled her eyes, and shook her head. Hermione supposed she did have a point-this was a murderer they were talking about, why wouldn’t he also break laws regarding unethical magical flora?  
“He was trying to find you and Harry. He suspected you’d gone way off grid, into other dimensions, and he was using a Scrying crystal to find you. He thought the moly helped him see into other plains. He said Grindelwald used to use it, to see the future, even,” Ginny said.  
“Another dark wizard he idolizes. A pity he didn’t want to be an astronaut as a boy,” Hermione said sourly.  
Ginny smirked and raised her eyebrows in lieu of laughter, and said, “Yeah, well, it makes you seriously dehydrated. When he was bouncing back from what each Scrying session took out of him, the Carrows took more and more control of the school.”  
“Death Eaters, in control of Hogwarts…” Hermione whispered in horror.  
Of course, she had read that Snape would be Headmaster, and Amycus Carrow the Defense Against the Dark Arts professor, in the newspaper before they departed the Burrow, but to hear all of this was still a shock. Never, as long as she lived, would she forget the flock of rowboats carrying her and other first years across the lake, the sight of the castle growing closer and closer as they sailed, and her first sight of the floating candles and enchanted sky view ceiling of the Great Hall. Hogwarts wasn’t just her school, it was her home, and it was now in the hands of the darkest wizards alive.  
“They’ve got no use for the younger kids, sent ‘em all home, the first, second, and third years. But, third year and up, they’ve got them learning vile stuff, and reciting all this pro-Voldemort rhetoric by heart like they’re singing ‘God Save the Queen’. It is rather like that, I suppose. Patriotism, but with Voldemort in the middle of it. Like a religion,” Ginny said.  
“When did you decide to leave?” Hermione said.  
“Didn’t decide-they expelled all the Gryffindors,” Ginny said. “A bit stupid, when you think about it. Everyone underage is just going to go home and tell their parents what’s happening at the school, and everyone of age is going to do something about it. But, I think he did it for Lily. She was a Gryffindor.”  
“Its all been for her, hasn’t it?” Hermione said. “Saving Harry from Quirrell, all of it.”  
Ginny sighed, and said, “He thought I was Lily. The bloody hair, I suppose, and he was so out of it on moly. He’d talk to me…tell me things. Apologizing, at first, for letting me get killed. Says he asked the Dark Lord to spare me, when he found out the prophecy had to do with the Potters, not some other family. He defected, and he’s been waiting on Dumbledore hand and foot, ever since.”  
“Ah, so he decided to cut out the middle man: he resented being subjugated by Dumbledore, and cudgeled daily with his sense of guilt, so he murdered him, gaining an even closer foothold on Voldemort’s loyalties, all the better to try and take revenge for Lily by killing Voldemort himself. And, he resented Harry for, among other things, being the so-called Chosen One destined to kill Voldemort-he wants to do it himself, Snape,” Hermione theorized.  
“No,” Ginny said bluntly. “That’s good, very clever, but that’s not it.”  
“What, then?” Hermione said.  
“Dumbledore asked Snape to kill him. He was dying anyway, Hermione. He destroyed one of Tom’s Horcruxes, a ring, and…remember his hand? It was all twisted, black? That was the curse of the ring,” Ginny said. “When Dumbledore found out that Draco Malfoy had been tasked to kill him, he felt sorry for him, and made Snape promise he’d do it instead, so Draco wouldn’t have to.”  
Hermione bit her lip as she weighed this story, and eventually said, “Ginny, you say yourself that Snape wasn’t in his right mind. He was under the influence of an extremely powerful substance, and he thought he was talking to a woman he is in love with. Of course he’d dress things up, and smooth things over…or maybe, he believes this. Killers often believe that they had a bond with their victims, sometimes they pace their cells, still talking to the people they’ve murdered. His idea of his motivations and relationship with Dumbledore might not be…what took place outside of his mind.”  
Ginny ill-temperedly rolled her eyes and made a small scoffing noise. “With all due respect, Hermione, you weren’t there, and you weren’t the one alone with him in his office, trying to get him to hold soup down or take a Dreamless Sleep potion. I was the only one who could get through to him, not even Dumbledore’s portrait could, sometimes…He would never lie to me.”  
“To Lily,” Hermione corrected.  
“What’s the difference?! As long as he thought I was Lily, I got the truth out of him,” Ginny said.  
Delicately, Hermione asked, looking Ginny in her eyes, “Ginny…he didn’t take any sort of advantage of you, or act inappropriately in any way, when he thought you were Lily Potter, did he?”  
“No! I’m …I mean, Lily’s a married woman, remember? He knew that Lily would never leave James for him, but he wanted a chance to explain,” Ginny said. “I really didn’t expect you to take this line.”  
“What line was I meant to take?” Hermione asked.  
“I suppose I thought you’d appreciate how much it took, to keep up the Lily act, and get information like that out of Snape,” Ginny said frostily. “Don’t you think Harry needs to know this sort of thing?”  
“I think it’s a ‘full of sound and fury, signifying nothing,’” Hermione said, quoting a monologue from MacBeth. Ginny, who didn’t know the quote, hissed,  
“Nothing? Keeping my wits about me, brewing potions for him, being up there alone with him and then going to class, acting as if nothing happened, that’s nothing?”  
“I’m sorry for what you had to go through, Ginny, but…I just think we need to take Snape’s words with a grain of salt,” Hermione said. “but if he did do anything inappropriate, Ginny, you would tell me?”  
“I’m not a whore, thanks,” Ginny snapped.  
“Being in a situation like that wouldn’t make you a whore! It wouldn’t be your fault, Ginny, it would be solely your attacker’s-women don’t do anything to provoke men into hurting them, and when men hurt them, its not their fault, not at all!” Hermione said firmly.  
She was aghast to hear Ginny spouting a ‘blame the victim’ perspective on rape and sexual assault, but knew that Ginny must have picked it up through cultural osmosis. The Wizarding community could be toxically sexist, Hermione knew from her own experiences being a figure of shaming gossip about her love life during the Rita Skeeter days. It was one of many things she wanted to change, when the war was over.  
“Nothing like that happened. He wouldn’t hurt Lily, like that. He did love her,” Ginny said. “I think they were like you and Harry. Until they couldn’t be anymore.”  
Hermione thought about this. It had occurred to her, too, that the way Lily felt about Snape was eerily close to what she had always felt for Harry: complete devotion, deep affection, absolute loyalty, but a deep vein of worry for a vulnerable boy who didn’t value himself, enough. The only time she had ever felt that Harry was going down a wrong, dangerous path against her advice was the Half Blood Prince, but through the Palimpsest memory she had experienced the desolation in Lily Evans Potter’s heart that Snape had gone too far on the path of dark magic to turn back.  
“I might not entirely believe the veracity of all this, but I do think you were awfully brave, finding it all out, Ginny,” Hermione said.  
This softened her, somewhat, but they didn’t speak any more as they continued to walk through the forest, to Hannah’s house. Hermione recognized in Ginny the same thirst for recognition that so often plagued Ron, but combined with that the lingering trauma of the Chamber of Secrets: she blamed herself for being vulnerable to Tom Riddle, but also didn’t want anyone else to see her as a vulnerable victim. In her determination to prove herself capable, she pitched herself into dangerous situations with little regard for her safety. Perhaps Snape truly had respected Lily’s matrimonial status, was more focused on atonement than carnal attraction, or revered her beyond the point of feeling he deserved to touch her, but another sort of man, released from morally driven inhibitions by narcotics and alone in a secret meeting with a girl on the cusp of 17, would have known no boundaries. Ginny hadn’t thought enough of her own safety, because her sense of safety itself had been shattered when she was so young. All of these traumas and triggers could make her combative and defensive, projecting her fears about herself onto what she assumed others were thinking about her.  
She thought that defeating Voldemort, whom she knew as ‘Tom’, would bring her peace…but, from her Muggle background Hermione knew that Ginny probably needed a deeper sort of path to peace, some kind of treatment focused on her mental health, to recover from Voldemort’s sacking of her mind.  
As would Harry, she thought, with sadness.  
“We’re here!” Hannah called, and led them onto a snow-covered lawn.  
As they emerged from one side of the woods, slender deer fled gracefully back into the other side of the snow-burdened trees on the other side of a frozen pond. Hermione looked up, and saw a Tudor manor of humble proportions. Ginny and Hannah jogged to catch up with the others.  
“Nice place, Hannah,” Ginny said.  
“Thanks! It's called Deerfield Hall, reckon you can see why-the deer run amok, round here," she said fondly, as she unlocked the door. Over the eaves were carved a crowd of faces, which Hermione knew were called Green Men, or Eavesdroppers. Hannah opened the door, and they entered the entrance hall, which had a low ceiling with heavy timber beams. Moonlight reflected upon the snow, argent with a hint of celestial blue, shone from the lattice windows on the polished oak floor, a large oak table, and sturdy, wide oak conversation chair. Hannah led them upstairs, to a cozy library.  
“I’ll start a fire,” Remus said graciously, and cast, “Incendio,” upon some logs. Orange flames leapt to life, and an orange-gold glow cast upon the walls of the room. The gold thread of book titles borrowed the light and illuminated, and the firelight shone on everyone’s faces as they appreciatively got warm.  
Hannah took off her cloak, and hung it upon a stand. Underneath, she was wearing jeans and a Take That concert tshirt.  
At the sight of it, Ginny barely held back a chortle. Hannah, who seemed to know what her laughter was about, shot her a silencing glare. Hermione, however, tried her best not to judge anyone’s appreciation of boy bands-she’d rather liked Duran Duran in her early childhood.  
“So, I was telling you before about the Chronicle. It’s a record of all the wizarding families in these parts, and it goes about as far back as the Normans,” Hannah said. “Mum’s got some notes and things, still, that Voldemort didn’t take, but this is the easiest way.”  
She took her wand out of her pocket, and pointed up at the ceiling. The Tudor beams disappeared, and the ceiling revealed its true appearance. A domed shape, painted with a fresco of names on banners, connected by slender golden threads.  
“Let’s see, then…Potter,” Hannah said. The banners bearing the names James Potter and Lily Potter illuminated, and after that so did names connected to them by golden threads, Fleamont and Euphemia Potter. More names lit up, and Harry, with a Seeker’s eyes, said,  
“Look! Iolanthe Peverell! So one of my great-grandmothers was a Peverell,” Harry said. “can we switch focus, from Potter to Peverell?”  
“Yeah. We can go through Iolanthe, back through her whole family,” Hannah said, pointing her wand at Iolanthe’s name.  
The names of the Peverell family illuminated, and with Iolanthe’s ancestor’s name, Ignotus, so did his two brothers, Cadmus and Antioch. Their lines illuminated, too.  
“Harry, look! Its Tom,” Ginny said.  
From Cadmus Peverell and Lamia Slytherin, the light of Hannah’s wand traveled to the Gaunt family, which ended with Merope Gaunt, her husband, Tom, and their namesake son.  
“Its true. Its as Morgana said, you and Voldemort are connected by blood!” Hermione said.  
“Her and Merlin, and Auberon, they aren’t here, though,” Harry said.  
“Too far back. Hannah said it went back to the Normans,” Hermione said. “The Norman invasion was in 1066, so that means-”  
“Merlin’s bollocks! We know! We know when the bloody Norman invasion was, we’ve lived in Britain all our bloody lives, same as you! You think you’re better than us! You think you know everything!” Ginny roared, her face twisted in a fury that obliterated her beauty, staring at Hermine with pure and singular hatred, that could not be explained away as anything else.  
Hermione braced herself, breathing evenly, trying her best not to look away from Ginny, in order to figure out what was wrong with her. She sensed something off, something not right, in the air around her friend.  
“Ginny, we’ve had a long night. We know you don’t mean those things. Please, stop, now,” Lupin said patiently.  
“Lay off Hermione!” Harry said passionately. “Gin, if you’ve got something to say to me, say it to me, all right?”  
Ginny scoffed, and said, “Don’t flatter yourself,” she said dismissively. “None of you give a damn about me. None of you know me, or care about me. None of you knew there was anything wrong with me! If someone had just…paid me any attention, been my friend, it wouldn’t have happened! You only feel sorry for me, no one really likes me!” She roared hysterically, and to Harry added, “ And you…you feel sorry for me, and want to shag me-what is that even called?”  
Harry looked pale with guilt, and his mouth opened and closed several times, unsure of what to say. He looked at Hermione, as if appealing for her understanding.  
Ginny looked somewhere between distraught and furious. Her beauty had returned, and she looked like the ghost of a drowned girl, that only appeared on certain forgotten holidays.  
“Gin…what are you wearing?” Ron asked.  
“Professor Lupin, what’s going on?” Hannah asked, tearfully.  
Harry and Hermione noticed what Ron had: around Ginny’s neck was Slytherin’s locket.  
“My bag! She must have gone in it at dinner, or when we were singing carols! But, why?” Hermione cried.  
“ ‘But why?’” Ginny mimicked cruelly. “Something you don’t know, for once, bitch?”  
“OY!” Ron and Harry cried in unison.  
Remus put a halting hand on Harry’s arm, seeing the fierce look in Harry’s eyes, and trying to hold him back. “There’s something wrong with Ginny. Why do you three think its coming from that locket?”  
“It’s a Horcrux!” Ron said.  
“What’s a Horcrux?” Remus said calmly.  
Ron, Harry, and Hermione looked at each other with silent panic: Dumbledore hadn’t told Lupin about Voldemort’s seven Horcruxes, and even with his extensive knowledge of Defense Against the Dark Arts, he knew nothing of Horcruxes, in general.  
“It’s a fragment of one’s soul, torn apart by an act of murder, and stored in a vessel. Voldemort’s made seven of them, and one of them possessed Ginny when she was just 11,” Hermione said. “Why would she go in my bag, and put on the locket?”  
“It called to her. That’s what he does-he seduces and uses people,” Harry said heatedly.  
“YOU’RE IGNORING ME AGAIN!” Ginny roared.  
“Ron, the dagger,” Hermione whispered.  
“What? Now?” he hissed.  
“Yes!” Hermione said. “put your hand in my bag, and get the dagger.”  
“Get close to Ginny, and stab the Horcrux,” Harry whispered.  
“Stop whispering! You keep your secrets, and won’t let anyone else in. No one else is good enough…” Ginny taunted.  
“Its not like that!” Hannah said. “They don’t think they’re better than any one else. Harry’s got important things to do, and Ron and Hermione help and protect him! No one can do it all alone!”  
Ron took a grounding breath, and stepped forward, closer to Ginny, who was practically radiating a forbidding darkness.  
“Gin…you’re right. I didn’t look out for you, when you started school. I should have. I wasn’t always a good brother. I wanted friends of my own, and…I dunno, I guess I thought Percy would look after you, he was always trying to be so mature…I had no idea what was happening to you, but I wish I did, Gin. I wish I had known, and I’m sorry,” Ron said pleadingly.  
“And Ginny, I didn’t pay enough attention to you, either. I should have reached out sooner,” Hermione said.  
“Gin…” Harry sighed. “I didn’t mean to use you as a distraction, but deep down, I know that’s what I did. I’m sorry.”  
“You don’t mean any of that…” Ginny said.  
“Of course we do, Gin. Can we just start over? I’ll be a better brother,” Ron said.  
“And we’ll be better friends,” Hermione promised ardently.  
Ron put his hand on Ginny’s shoulder, and looked into her eyes desperately. Ginny looked at him quizzically, as if some part of her was evaluating if she could trust him. In that brief window of time, Ron plunged the basilisk tooth dagger into the Horcrux.  
Ginny flailed, and then fell to the floor, the locket falling out of Ron’s grasp as it exhaled plumes of black smoke.  
Hermione drew the wand she and Harry shared from her pocket, and said, “Everyone, I want you to point your wands at the smoke, and say, ‘Avant, Tom Riddle!’”  
“Who’s Tom Riddle?” Hannah asked fearfully.  
“Don’t worry about that, just say it!” Harry said.  
The smoke multiplied, rolling in a cloud like toxic emissions, and even Harry, who had no wand of his own, cried, “Avant, Tom Riddle!” with all their might. Finally, when the air was clear, Ron fell to his knees beside his sister, and gathered her into his arms, saying,  
“Gin, wake up….Gin….?”  
He sobbed, until she stirred with life.  
“Is she alive?” Hannah squeaked, looking shellshocked.  
“She’s breathing! We gotta get her upstairs, she needs rest,” Ron said urgently. Professor Lupin swiftly took Ginny from Ron’s arms and lifted her, carrying her out of the library.  
“I’m so sorry…” Harry murmured.  
“Harry, everything Voldemort does isn’t your fault! When will you see, that you’re one of the people he’s hurt, too?” Hermione said.  
Harry met her eyes, and his were still filled with remorse.  
“What was that?” Hannah asked, trying to recover her voice, but it was still a bit shaky.  
“Voldemort. Part of his soul. That’s what Dumbledore’s set us to do…to find all of the stored parts of Voldemort’s soul. There were seven: a diary, a ring, the locket, those are gone now. Me… I was one, but I’m not, any longer. There’s still a cup, a snake, and something that belonged to Rowena Ravenclaw,” Harry said.  
“What do you mean, something? What?” Hannah said.  
“We don’t know yet, but we do know that he used objects, when he could, connected to Hogwarts’ founders,” Harry said.  
“Hannah, we appreciate that you deserve answers, this is your house, and you’ve been so good as to look after us and answer our questions since we arrived. But, these Banishings take a lot out of one. Sirius and I did one, before, to get Voldemort’s soul out of Harry, and I had an awful headache afterwards,” Hermione said.  
“You never said anything,” Harry marveled.  
Hermione shrugged.  
“The things Gin said…I know it was the Horcrux, but I still hated hearing her talk to you that way, Hermione. Out of all of us, you were the best friend to her. I should have been better. Maybe the things Voldemort did aren’t on me, but I have hurt people,” Harry said.  
“Mate, I mean this with love, and all, but: this isn’t about you, this time, all right? Its about Gin,” Ron said.  
Hermione grimaced, but said, “I do hate to agree, but, Harry, this guilt that you feel as a knee jerk reaction to every bad thing that happens to anyone isn’t good for you, or the people around you. Voldemort is our enemy, we can’t lose sight of that. Harry, these things aren’t down to you, and we love you.”  
Harry looked meaningfully into Hermione’s eyes, moved beyond words, but saying everything he knew only she would understand, without words.  
“I’m going to make tea,” Hannah said, with a tone of resignation. 

Hannah did make tea, but was deeply apologetic that she had no food to serve alongside it. Her home hadn’t been inhabited for months, she usually slept at the church.  
“I come round to look in on things, but I can’t bear it, yet…to live where she died, trying to fight him off by herself. I can’t imagine what that was like,” she said, as they drank their Earl Gray from faded mugs at the small table in the kitchen, behind the dining room.  
“I know what you mean. When the Dementors were at Hogwarts, in third year, I could hear my my mum, begging Voldemort not to kill me, right before he killed her,” Harry said.  
“I remember…the boggart turned into a Dementor, in Professor Lupin’s class, when it was your turn,” Hannah said. “That’s what you heard? Oh, Harry…that’s bloody awful.”  
“Yeah, well, so is Take That,” Ron said.  
Hannah looked down at her shirt, and blushed. But, seconds later, she laughed, and so did Harry and Hermione.  
“Thanks, I needed that,” Hannah said.  
“Yeah, we don’t wanna dwell on dead parents all night,” Harry said. “That can run a bit long.”  
“Its weird, but…banishing that thing from Ginny felt good. Like, finally I was doing something to fight him, something real,” Hannah said.  
“Hannah, what you do by giving people safe harbor and a semblance of home is more than meaningful,” Hermione said.  
“And, something tells me you can house a lot more people here than split between the church and the pub. This place can do a lot of good, as a safehouse. Maybe it could even be the Order’s headquarters. I don’t think they’ve had a proper one since Grimmauld Place,” Ron said.  
“Well, yeah, sure. We’ll take anyone who wants nothing to do with Voldemort, Order or not, but I don’t mind if its Headquarters. I still want to keep the pub and the church running too, though. More places to hide, bigger operation we have, more people will think we know what we’re doing, and trust us,” Hannah said.  
“Makes sense,” Harry said. “But, we’ll have to make this place unplottable, like Grimmauld Place was before Dumbledore died, with a Fidelius Charm. Hermione?” Harry asked.  
She nodded. “I read up on it when you told us about your parents, and Sirius, but I’ve never performed it before.”  
“You’ll do brilliant,” Ron said. “But, can we do two Secret Keepers? I’ll be one, and Hannah can be one. That way, if either of us encounters people who need to run from Voldemort, we can bring them here.”  
“The Charm dilutes a bit the more Secret Keepers there are…but two should be fine. Right then. Can I refresh myself on the particulars, and do it tomorrow?” Hermione said.  
Harry smiled. “That’s good, Hermione. Let’s get some rest.”


	21. Chapter 21

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry and Hermione share concerns, and a Christmas morning kiss

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote two chapters today, so if you missed Chapter 20, do go back and read it, and hopefully you will enjoy it! 
> 
> This scene was written to: [Into My Arms by Nick Cave](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LnHoqHscTKE)

“Good night,” Hermione said, and headed into one of the small, Elizabethan era bedrooms with a heavy, canopied bed.  
“Erm…” Harry said, standing at the eaves.  
“What?” Hermione said. When Harry hesitated, she added, “Spit it out!”  
“Well, I just sort of assumed we’d be going into the same room…you know… to sort of…sleep there, together. Not, sleep together! I mean, right? Not?” Harry stammered.  
Hermione tried not to laugh…but, Harry caught the look in her eye, and they both laughed. This was so unlike them, and how forthcoming they usually found it so easy to be, with each other.  
“Even if we don’t, everyone will assume that we did,” Hermione said.  
“I don’t think they’d hold it against us. Even Ginny, when she’s herself,” Harry said.  
“Yes, I know, but…” Hermione said.  
“Its okay. That’s okay. I mean, in the Dream House, there was only one bed, and we slept side by side. I liked it. I liked not sleeping alone. You’re very…warm,” Harry said.  
“Thanks, Harry. You’re quite insulating, yourself,” Hermione said. They laughed together again, and Hermione felt like normalcy had been restored. “Come inside,” she added.  
She handed Harry their wand, and without asking he cast “Incendio” in the fireplace, igniting the logs and setting a healthy blaze. Hermione sat on the bed, and stripped off her sweater, leaving only her white cotton blouse.  
“I need a wand,” Harry said, looking into the flames.  
“I’ve been thinking about that, too,” Hermione said. “Playing pass the potato is a bit inconvenient.”  
Harry smiled, and said, “Maybe it’s a good thing…not to have a wand connected to Voldemort. The shared cores stalled any spell either of us shot at each other-that won’t be good in the end, will it?”  
“When you kill him, you mean?” Hermione asked.  
“Its still got to come down to that. He wants it that way, ‘Mione,” Harry said.  
“Well, perhaps we’ll let him think he’s setting the terms, then,” Hermione said.  
“What, you mean bait him with the idea that he’s finally got me?” Harry said. “and then what?”  
“And then, enter the Order of the Phoenix, and we fight him together,” Hermione said.  
“How would we put that into play?” Harry asked.  
“I don’t know yet…my head aches as if to burst, and it must be 3 a.m, at least…but I do know that when the moment seems right, that’s what we should do. But, what were you saying, about wands?” she said.  
“That maybe one less connection to him, the better. First, breaking my wand, then the Banishing, which got his soul out of my body…but, we can talk about all of this in the morning,” Harry said.  
“It is the morning,” Hermione pointed out. “Christmas morning.”  
“Right,” Harry said. “And I didn’t get you anything…” he added puckishly.  
Hermione smirked, and said, “All I want for Christmas is some sleep.” Her face grew more serious, and she added, “and for Ginny to get better.”  
“She will. Lupin’s with her,” Harry said. “He’s got a lot of know-how.”  
“He has, but he didn’t even know what Horcruxes are! A Defense Against the Dark Arts professor! They’re dark, rare magic, Harry-and I worry what the effects of them will be on you, and Ginny. You’ve both had bouts of depression, and anger, isolation, and a tendency to conceal your real feelings from those around you. What if those are side effects of…him…being inside you?” Hermione said.  
Harry winced at that less than flattering description of him, but he couldn’t deny that he was the same person who’d shouted at the top of his lungs at Ron and Hermione when he arrived at Grimmauld Place, at Dumbledore when he thought Sirius dead, and trashed his office on that same occasion. He hadn’t felt like himself, when he did those things, he felt out of control, but he didn’t feel possessed. As Ginny had pointed out, when she was possessed, she blacked out-and when Harry was feeling his connection with Voldemort, he had seen the other wizard’s thoughts, felt his emotions. That anger had been Harry’s, and it had made him feel small and powerless to stop it from exploding from him like a tsunami of raw, ugly emotion.  
Harry climbed onto the bed, behind Hermione, and put his hands on her shoulders.  
“Those things had nothing to do with Voldemort, not that way. I was just…feeling a lot, but I didn’t know what to do to make it go away, or what to say,” Harry said. “Don’t worry. Gin is going to be all right. She was fine after the diary.”  
“Was she, Harry? Her whole sense of self has grown around her trauma, like a vine around a tree. She was determined to prove herself strong and valuable, the opposite of a vulnerable little girl, but inside she was full of anger and resentment at herself, and at us…” Hermione said.  
“Hermione….you know that Horcruxes bring out and distort the worst things you’ve ever felt. Maybe for a bit, every once in a while, she felt like we should have been paying her more attention, but its not all she feels. We’re her friends. But Horcruxes amplify the bad, and obscure the good,” Harry said. “Are you saying that’s how I was? You can be honest…”  
“No! I mean, sometimes you were rather…formidable. But, you’re the same little boy from first year, deep down,” Hermione said, her voice warm. Harry could hear that she was smiling. He gave her shoulder a coaxing rub, and she turned to face him.  
“What can I do or say to make you go to sleep, and stop worrying about everyone and everything but yourself?” Harry asked.  
A wild, wicked look appeared in Hermione’s eyes, and she smirked cheekily.  
“Kiss me,” she said.  
Harry obeyed. He was thunderstruck by how quickly the kiss escalated. He closed his eyes, and there seemed not to be just one Hermione, but a flock of delicate, winged creatures all bearing her touch like a message written in parts: the softness of her lips, the weight and heat of her touch as she wound her arms around his neck, and he felt her hands on the back of his neck. Harry felt a live wire hiss sparks along his spine. Her touch there, her fluttering fingertips, was so abrupt, so unmistakably intimate. He kissed her harder, coaxing her lips to move in a rhythm they created with the same instincts they had honed when sharing a tent, a house of dreams, a flight between folded sheets of time, the menaces and discoveries of the ether, the names of stars and the taste of nameless fruits, the perfume of the Green Tower and the smaller, humbler things that would have broken them if they’d been alone, or would not have shone with hope if they had not witnessed their brilliance together. Hermione’s hands up and down his spine, Harry’s lips on her neck, his breath and her moans echoing in the firelit dark…it was yet another shared moment in a life shared so long…  
“Don’t cry. Why are you crying?” Harry whispered, after many kisses, or a long kiss in which they learned to breathe each other’s breath passed back and forth, when he felt the hot dew of Hermione’s tears on his neck. He cradled her, caressed her back and sides.  
“I know you hate crying,” she said.  
“No. I hate thinking that the last time I saw someone, I made them cry,” Harry said. “I hate not knowing what to do when someone’s in pain. I want all the pain to stop.”  
“I know…I’m ridiculous,” she murmured.  
“You’re brilliant. Tell me, please?” Harry said.  
“It sort of happens when I’m very happy. And I’m so, so happy right now, Harry,” Hermione whispered, her voice tremulous with vulnerability. That made him feel so many things…She added, in an even lower whisper, “I’m afraid.”  
“Of what?” He asked.  
“I don’t know. Being happy like this, just seems like tempting fate to take it away,” she said.  
“Nothing is going to take this away, Hermione. Ever,” Harry said, with a burst of faith he only felt, knew it was only possible to feel, when she was in his arms, under the heavy covers, behind the curtains of the canopy, Harry's sweater pressed against Hermione's blouse, the denim of their jeans mingling, and their toes in their socks tickling each other. She was utterly, completely close to him, and they were each other's warmth. Hermione turned to him. He could see nothing in the dark, but he felt her nose against his, felt the nectar of her tears, felt the rumor of her lips as slowly, they fit their lips together again, and held each other close in the liberating, merciful dark of Christmas morning.


	22. Chapter 22

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione supports Ron and Harry as Ginny takes a turn for the worse

Harry unpeeled his body from Hermione’s. He had been nestled around her, “the big spoon”, his face pressed to her hair which still smelled persistently of the wildflowers around the Burrow. He pulled the cover up around her, stretched, yawned, and rather stiffly got out of bed and plodded to the library. There he found the fire burning, Ron and Lupin sitting in armchairs in front of it. Ron looked grave, and Lupin left off talking when he saw Harry.  
“How’s Ginny?” Harry asked.  
Ron and Lupin passed a look.  
“Stable. We got a message to Melinda, she was able to bring us a wide range of possibly helpful substances from her family’s nearest location, and we’ve prepared Ginny some stabilizing potions,” Lupin said.  
“Melinda….?” Harry asked.  
“Bobbin. Her family owns all those apothecaries? Thank Merlin there’s one next village over, and even the Muggles go there. They think its an acupuncturist’s!” Ron said.  
“More and more of our kind are taking advantage of the Muggles’ interest in alternative medicine and New Age spirituality, the occult, if you will, Neo-Paganism to offer their services and expertise to a new customer base. Herbology, Potions, Divination, not to mention stories of History of Magic and Defense Against the Dark Arts disguised as fiction, written into novels…many are finding an unexpected but lucrative new customer base amongst unsuspecting Muggles,” Lupin said.  
“Why not? There’s no Ministry anymore, to stop them from putting it all out there,” Ron said. “and they’ll be begging someone to protect them, the further Voldemort gets.”  
“But its dangerous, isn’t it? Muggles finding out too much about our world?” Harry said.  
Lupin smiled bemusedly. “My mother was a Muggle. She was quite openminded about magic…given that her son and husband were wizards, I suppose she had to be,” he said.  
Before he could stop himself, Harry said, “Not everyone’s your mum.”  
Lupin merely raised his eyebrows-a lifetime of friendship with Sirius had adequately prepared him for a bit of cheek, while Ron looked apologetic.  
“Nor is everyone your aunt,” Lupin said even-temperedly. “and, the sort of Muggles likely to be interested in these wizards’ services are a decidedly different breed, a new generation of people who are interested in world myth, anthropological findings about ancient cultural traditions from Europe’s pagan past, and a spirituality that venerates nature. Simply put, they have academic or spiritual beliefs about magic, rather than the fear of the diabolic that their ancestors held. And, I think, magic is enchanting, no pun intended. It gives people hope. I think a lot of Muggles wish that magic was real, and in fact are looking for it.”  
“Magic doesn’t fix everything,” Harry said.  
Ron rolled his eyes. “Mate, what’s with you? Seriously?” he snapped.  
Harry blinked, surprised. “What?” he asked.  
“The gloom and doom routine! Its Christmas Day!” Ron said peevishly.  
It seemed they were right back where they had left off in the tent, with Ron spoiling for a fight. However, when Harry saw the look that Lupin gave Ron as he put a halting hand on his arm, he got the hint that something was far deeper wrong than Ron being peevish.  
Before Harry could ask what was wrong, a pretty girl with curly black hair just barely bound into a ponytail it was trying to escape from, with golden eyes the color of light wildflower honey, wearing an argyle sweater and jeans entered the room. Melinda Bobbins-Harry recognized her from Slughorn’s parties. 

“How is she?” Ron asked, starting up from his chair.  
“Sleeping. The Essence of Poppy is doing its job,” Melinda said wearily.  
“What’s that do?” Ron asked tensely.  
Melinda shrugged desolately, and sank into a chair. If asked, Harry would say that she looked hopeless.  
“It just staves off the pain, so that she can’t feel the organ failure. I’m still looking into ways to restore the tissues, stop the damage. A real Healer could put her into a kind of stasis, but…” Melinda sighed, and looked over at Lupin. “Is there any hope of getting her to St. Mungos?”  
“She’s a Weasley. They’re visible, and notorious. But, I do have a few acquaintances still on staff, I’ll see if I can get her admitted under another name, and privately tended to,” Lupin said.  
Harry frowned. “Hang on…organ failure? What’s going on?” He looked from Ron, whose foul mood was now explained, to Lupin, to Melinda.  
“The cursed necklace did severe internal damage to Ginny, to her major organs…I’m trying to stabilize her, and keep her pain managed, but its an uphill battle, and I’m not a Healer,” Melinda said.  
“But, nothing like this happened after Riddle’s diary!” Harry said.  
“Ron’s told me the story. He mentioned that Dumbledore told you that the diary must have been an early, sort of tester Horcrux, that’s why he was so careless with it, compared to others that were so painstakingly concealed,” Lupin said. “the locket must have been a later production, and a more sophisticated one, with a curse attached, which would kill whoever tried to destroy or open it.”  
“The ring…there was a curse like that on the ring…that’s why Dumbledore’s hand was like that, he destroyed the Horcrux within, but the curse… Ginny’s cursed? Is she….dying?” Harry asked. Ron stiffened.  
“We’re quite literally not saying die, just yet. I do entertain some hope that we can get her into St. Mungo’s, or get someone from there to come here, and Bill is on his way. The curse seems to be adapted from an Egyptian method to seal tombs, perhaps he’s run into it and knows a way to reverse its effects,” Lupin said.  
“But, if her pain gets too great, I’m not going to let her keep suffering needlessly. All right? The Essence of Poppy will make sure its…painless. She’ll just drift off, like falling to sleep. It’ll be the merciful thing to do,” Melinda said.  
“That’s my sister you’re talking about killing!” Ron roared, his face twisted with anguished emotion.  
“It won’t be killing! It would be mercy! The damage, its extensive. If she were a Muggle, she’d be dead, already,” Melinda said.  
“She’s not a Muggle, she’s a witch, and she can fight this,” Ron said.  
Melinda’s mouth thinned, and she looked at Ron as if there was much she could say, but she didn’t think he’d even begin to understand. 

Harry’s head was swimming. He had figured out that he wasn’t in love with Ginny, but she was his friend, a member of the family that had treated him as one of their own since he was 11, a fixture in his life since he was 12. He felt like there was white noise blaring in his ears, static in his mind, at the idea of her dying. He had so wanted her to live, when he found her so small and inert on the cold, wet floor of the Chamber of Secrets, and she had lived. She had grown up, and Harry saw a panorama of memories of the girl he felt that he barely knew: a charging wild mustang Patronus galloping from her wand in the Room of Requirement during the D.A., her small, clarion voice and pleased look on her face as she named Dumbledore’s Army, the blur of fiery ginger hair and scarlet Gryffindor robes as she played Quidditch. She had survived Tom and the Chamber, and lived to become that girl, the able witch and dynamic athlete of the last two years. But, this time it wasn’t up to him to save her. His first thought was to run to Hermione for an answer, but he was loath to wake her, and deep down he knew that only Dumbledore had a chance in matching Voldemort’s knowledge of magical esoterica. They were alone, all of them, but especially Ginny, who lay dying on Christmas day.  
Outside the library window, winter sunshine from a cloudless morning sky shone brilliantly on the deer tracked snow, as bright as redemption.  
“This is all my fault. I stabbed the Horcrux, while she was wearing it,” Ron said, with a distraught moan.  
“There was no other way. The possession was just going to get worse, who knows what she would have done?” Remus said. “You saved your sister’s soul, Ron.”  
“Yeah, well, she can’t do much with it if she dies, can she?” Ron said bitterly.

“What? What do you mean by that?” Hermione asked, coming into the room with her hair tousled from sleep, still wearing the blouse and jeans she’d slept in. She noticed Melinda, and said her name in surprise.  
“Hi, Hermione,” she said, gratefully, starved for a distraction. “I missed you at Christmas dinner, I was making a supply run. How are you?”  
“Fine, thanks, but Ginny?” she said urgently. Harry instantly went to her side, feeling her distress.  
“Its not good. Hannah called me to come round, and said Ginny Weasley had a high fever after being possessed by a necklace cursed by Voldemort,” Melinda said. “I didn’t know what to expect, but when I did an analysis of her aura, it was clear that she had internal damage like nothing I’ve ever seen. I’ve been preparing every potion I know, but she needs a proper Healer.”  
“Its like the damage to Dumbledore’s hand, from Marvolo Gaunt’s ring!” Hermione said breathily.  
“Mione…” Ron said weakly, struggling not to break. 

She turned completely towards him, their eyes met, and Ron leaned down to allow Hermione to wrap her arms around him, and chastely hold him close to her, as if he was her brother or even her son. She unpeeled one arm from Ron’s back and waved Harry over. He wasn’t sure if he and Ron had ever hugged, but when he felt Harry’s arms around him too, he let go, and sobbed.  
“I’m going to place some calls, all right?” Remus said delicately, and Melinda followed his lead and left the three friends alone.

When Ron had settled down somewhat, his face red, sniffing back fluid gathering in his nose, and tenaciously wiping his face with the sleeve of the previous year’s Christmas sweater, Harry and Hermione pulled back and let go, giving him a bit of room.  
“Ron, this is not your fault!” Hermione said passionately.  
“Yes, it is! Its all been, since she started school. I should have looked out for her, but I was always telling her to go away. I didn’t think she cared this much, but she hates me,” Ron said. “And now, I don’t get to tell her….” He shook his head as if shaking water out of his ear, and said, “first, I left you and Harry, now, this…Mum and Dad aren’t going to be able to look at me. I’m worse than Percy.”  
“You are not!” Hermione said. “Ginny isn’t dead, yet. I’ll confer with Melinda on what methods we have yet to try. Perhaps we’ll alight on some of the same methods Professor Dumbledore was using to slow the onslaught of the ring’s curse.”  
“Knowing Voldemort, he’ll not have used the same curse twice. Each Horcrux was unique because each murder, each death is unique, a triumph all its own for him,” Harry said.  
Ron looked at him as if he was disturbed, repelled, and Harry felt himself shrinking in humiliation.  
“You sound like you admire him or something,” Ron said.  
“All those lessons last year with Dumbledore were about understanding Voldemort better, that’s all Harry is saying,” Hermione said.  
“We’ve all lost our families to him, now,” Ron said.  
“No. Ginny’s not lost,” Hermione said.  
“Oh, yeah? Bobbin seems keen to put her to sleep, like she’s a horse or a dog,” Ron said disgustedly.  
“Its called euthanasia, and some people actually choose it if they feel their condition is going to…diminish them in such a way they don’t want to suffer, or have their loved ones witness,” Hermione said. “it’s not allowed everywhere, and its controversial, of course…”  
“AND YOU THINK THAT’S OKAY? BECAUSE MUGGLES DO IT?! WE’RE. NOT. BLOODY. MUGGLES!” Ron shouted.  
“Ron, Ron, please! Calm down! That’s not what Hermione is saying!” Harry said, shouldering in between Hermione and Ron, and putting a hand on Ron’s shoulder. Hermione, who usually got tearful and anxious when someone shouted at her, had been changed by the ordeal of the Ether, and was looking at Ron dead in the eye, clear eyed and grounded.  
“Ron, we care about Ginny as much as you do! Ginny…she is Gryffindor house. She’s everything a Gryffindor is meant to be: brave, loyal, and she always tries her best to do the right thing, even when its difficult. She tried to fight off Voldemort’s possession when she was just 11. She fought hard, then, and she’s fighting just as hard, now, I’m sure of it,” Hermione said.  
Ron scowled, at first, then his whole body seemed to exhale his anger, leaving only weariness. He said nothing, but nodded.

“You look exhausted, mate. We’ll look in on Ginny, you go get some sleep,” Harry said. Ron nodded again, and obeyed.  
When he left the library, Hermione said, “Harry, call Kreacher.”  
“What, why?” Harry said, with a surprised frown.  
“House-elf magic is exempt from Gamp’s laws about producing food out of thin air. We need food, and someone making this place…homey,” Hermione said.  
“He did stop acting like a nutter after we asked him about Regulus, and gave him the duplicate locket,” Harry said. He had rather enjoyed that brief time living at Number 12 with Ron, Hermione, and Kreacher, or at least Kreacher’s cooking.  
“Yeah, fine. Kreacher!” he called. The elf appeared ,wizened and grubby, with those beseeching eyes.  
“Master calls?” Kreacher said sarcastically. Clearly, he had an issue with being left behind abruptly when he was just getting the hang of waiting on wizards, once again…and doing so without spouting pureblood supremacist bile.  
Hermione crouched to her knees, and said, “Kreacher, thank you so much for coming!” in a bright and cheerful voice.  
“Is Master done with his gallivanting?” Kreacher said, ignoring Hermione.  
“Kreacher, I want you to help out everyone here at Deerfield Hall. You know, food, and baths, and keeping the place nice. I won’t be here all the time, but…consider this home for a bit, till I tell you otherwise, all right?” Harry said. He remembered all the trouble wrought by Sirius telling Kreacher to ‘get out’, and added, “and don’t leave, no matter who tells you to, all right? When I need you to go, I’ll tell you myself, all right?”  
He looked to Hermione ,wanting to know if he had done all right. She nodded.  
“Very well, Master Harry,” Kreacher said.  
“Right then. Can you make breakfast for six people? One of them’s sick, so maybe a soup for her?” Harry asked.  
“Yes, Master,” Kreacher said, and Apparated away.

With that done, Harry and Hermione went to Ginny’s room. Harry was surprised to see her awake, and sitting up in bed. She was wearing light blue flannel pyjamas, and drinking a mug of what was probably a potion. The snowy morning glimmered outside the window beside her, and she looked calm and contemplative as she sipped her potion. Her long red hair was loose around her shoulders, and slightly wet.  
“Ginny,” Hermione said warmly. “Happy Christmas.”  
Ginny smiled a bit. Her eyes betrayed how unwell she was, they looked tired and slightly glassy.  
“Thanks,” Ginny said, and bluntly added, “worst one yet, honestly.”  
Hermione laughed, as she sat on the edge of Ginny’s bed. Harry thought that might be a tad too intimate, considering that they were exes.  
“I’ve had better Christmases, too,” Hermione said, with a wry smile. “Is there anything we can do for you, Ginny?”  
“To stop me from dying? I bloody well hope so,” Ginny said bluntly.  
Harry would have laughed, if he didn’t feel like he was in the slow motion of a train crash. Ron was miserable, Ginny was ill, and if he didn’t have Hermione by his side, he would probably be tearing his hair, screaming.  
“Ginny, how do you feel right now?” Hermione asked.  
“The pain potion works pretty good, I don’t feel anything right now. But when it wears off, everything aches and burns,” she admitted. 

“Ginny…did Snape ever tell you how, exactly, he stopped the spread of Dumbledore’s curse?” Hermione asked. Harry looked at her, wondering what that meant-why would Snape be confiding in Ginny?  
She shook her head. “No, he was focused on finding you, and Harry. And when we didn’t talk about that, we were talking about old times.”  
“What old times have you got with Snape?” Harry scoffed.  
Ginny’s voice was calm, her amber gaze steady as she said, “Not me. Lily. Your mother.”  
Harry felt as if he had been slapped. “My mum? He talked about her, to you?”  
“He thought I was her. Took a lot of improvisation on my part, to keep it up. I don’t know very much about Yorkshire,” Ginny said, her voice getting progressively more drowsy. “that’s where they were from. A little town, called Cokeworth. Each other’s only friends. It was nice, getting to pretend, for a bit, to be that close to someone. I wished that it really had been me, you know? Instead of Lily… If we had met when I was a little girl, and he was a little boy…I know we would have been friends, like that. A lonely little boy, and a lonely little girl….”  
Ginny’s eyes fluttered, and then finally closed. Harry stiffened with shock, but Hermione said, reassuringly, “She’s only sleeping,” and gently took the mug out of Ginny’s limp hands, placing it on the nightstand. She lovingly covered Ginny up with her blanket, and she and Harry withdrew. 

As they stood out in the corridor, Harry said, “How did we miss that she was that lonely?”  
“She was good at hiding it,” Hermione said. “Only girl, all those boys, wanting to be included, looked at as different. A little girl with magical powers, growing up on the edge of the village, and never allowed to go in, to go to school or to play with the Muggle children…then coming to school after such an isolated background to hundreds of other kids around, and no idea how to make friends. She learned to please, but never to just be herself. Being taken in by Tom Riddle was such a betrayal, it traumatized her with the idea that to be truly vulnerable was to get hurt.”

Harry nodded. He and Ginny had a few good weeks of banter and kisses on lazy sunlit May days between classes, Quidditch practice, and detention, but he saw now that they had both been merely experimenting, desperately performing their need for happiness. To be truly happy, you have to be honest and open…but Voldemort had stolen that from them.  
“What’d she mean, about my mum, and Snape? And him making her pretend to be my mum?” Harry asked.  
Hermione explained about the Scrying, the moly, and Ginny’s theory about Dumbledore’s death.  
“No,” Harry said, and felt sickly ashamed as he heard, in his memory, Dumbledore’s voice, so weak, as he implored, “Severus, please.”  
“He begged, Hermione,” Harry said adamantly. “He begged Snape not to do it. He didn’t want to die.”  
“Ginny is convinced that he told her the truth,” Hermione said.  
“I don’t want to talk about him! He’s sick! Making Ginny act out some impression of my mum…its sick!” Harry said. “He didn’t love her! He killed her! He’s to blame just as much as Voldemort!”  
“Harry, I know, I know,” Hermione said. “and I told Ginny relatively the same, believe me or not, but this is what she believes. I think they developed a rapport, she and Snape. There are a lot of lonely people in our world, aren’t there? People no one tolerates, includes, or remembers. Magic can be a hard world.”

Harry was no philosopher. He didn’t know what to say about that. Magic had given him a way out of the Dursleys’ house, and friends of his own, and he would always choose the Wizarding World over any other, and that was all he knew and as deep as he wanted to think about it.  
“What can we do for Ginny? There are no caladriuses in this realm,” Harry said.  
“No…but there are phoenixes!” Hermione said, gripped by epiphany. “Fawkes’s tears healed you, didn’t they, from the basilisk’s wound? They can heal just about anything! We need phoenix tears!”  
“Hermione, where are we going to get phoenix tears?” Harry said desperately, remembering Fawkes flying off into the gray sky, towards the mountains, away from Hogwarts forever.  
“That is tricky. They’re a fairly common wand core, obviously, so wandmakers must get the feathers from somewhere,” Hermione said.  
“Yeah, well, not as if we can ask Ollivander,” Harry said grimly.  
“Let’s ask Professor Lupin. He was so proficient when it came to dangerous magical creatures, he must know a bit about phoenixes,” Hermione said, and grabbed his hand, pulling him along.  
After finding him in the kitchen, they posed their question to Lupin, who said, “I have a contact I can recommend you to at the Scamander Institute.”  
“Scamander? Like, Newt Scamander?” Harry asked, recognizing the name of the author of one of his favorite books from the Hogwarts Library, ‘Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them.’  
“Well, he’s retired, but his son, Galton, helped me wrangle the kappa, grindylow, and boggart I brought to Hogwarts. He, and the Institute, aren’t far: Cardiff,” Remus said.  
“I can go!” Melinda said, sitting at the other end of the table, eating sausages that Kreacher had prepared. “It won’t be too out of place, will it, an apothecary’s assistant, going to a magical creatures sanctuary? Apothecaries, wandmakers, Healers-we get organic materials from magical creatures all the time.”  
“Very good, Miss Bobbin. First thing tomorrow, we can go in to Cardiff,” Remus said.  
“Tomorrow?” Harry said.  
“Harry,” Hermione reminded him, “Its Christmas Day.”  
Of course, he realized. The Scamander Institute, like everything else, would be closed tight as a drum.  
“I know how you feel. We all feel that way, and want to do our best to help Ginny,” Hermione said. “But, we can still be useful in other ways. Like, the Fidelius Charm to protect Deerfield. I think I can do it.”  
“I know you can, Hermione,” Harry said ardently. “When do you want to do it?”  
“I think Ron needs to feel useful more than anyone, so as soon as possible,” Hermione said. “then he and Hannah will be the Secret Keepers of Deerfield Hall, and this place will be a sanctuary.”  
“Can I do anything to help you prepare?” Harry asked.  
“I just need to ground myself. Come outside with me,” Hermione said.  
Deerfield Hall was the sort of old house which had its own communal collection of coats, Wellington boots, macintoshes, and, as it was a wizard house, cloaks and robes that didn’t seem to belong to any one person, they were available to anyone who happened upon them. Hermione pulled on her Ugg boots, and a heavy plum purple witch’s cloak, whilst Harry selected a pea coat.

“You look like James Dean in that photograph, in New York City…he wore glasses, too, you know,” Hermione said, as they walked out into the glittering morning, to the smell of ice and the ineffectual, scantly warm winter sunshine.  
Harry smirked, but said, “I didn’t know that. But, something tells me the resemblance stops there.”  
“Well, maybe its more in spirit. You have to admit, you’re a bit of a rebel-but most decidedly with a cause,” Hermione said.  
Harry laughed, and said, “Thanks, Hermione.” They walked around to the frozen pond. Harry looked down at the snow, which was beginning to melt and develop tiny sinkholes of melt that looked like pockmarks upon a lovely face.  
Hermione caressed his shoulders, and then rested her head on his shoulder, resting her body along the contours of his.  
“I know how you feel,” Hermione said. “you know, we talked about boys, a bit, when we shared a room at the Burrow, me and Ginny. She was so shy to tell me how much she liked you. She didn’t think I knew. She was so upset when she figured out that you fancied Cho…She wanted to get over you. I told her to just relax a little and be herself, and if another boy asked her out, to say yes. But, I don’t think she ever gave up. Especially not when you started…looking at her that way. We all saw it.”  
“I know. I was a git. I was…a bloody pervert, all right?” Harry grumbled.  
“No, no…we all lived in close quarters at Number 12 and the Burrow, it was only natural we’d start seeing each other that way. Me and Ron, you and Ginny…People aren’t meant to be alone. We’re born to love someone,” Hermione said. “The difficulty is finding them, sometimes.”  
Harry stared at the ice, and said, “But, I didn’t have to find you. You were always here. And, it always should have been me and you.”  
“It was supposed to be us, when the right time came. Stephen Hawking said that time is obdurate,” Hermione said.  
“What’s that mean?” Harry asked.  
“Time doesn’t want to be changed,” Hermione said. “you can’t rush things, and even with a Time Turner you can’t change very much, you can’t alter things that absolutely need to happen. Things that are meant to happen, happen at the right time.”  
Harry turned around. Hermione’s arms were around his waist, her hands rested on his lower back, and even through the wool of his coat he felt the ghost of her hands.  
She placed her head back on his shoulder, and he held her. Neither of them had any more words, but neither did they need to speak to know what each other felt.


	23. Chapter 23

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione performs the Fidelius Charm on Deerfield, and comes up with a way to save Ginny; Bill visits, and has vital information; Harry has a frightening realization about his relationship with Ginny

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pardon Bill's language! He was nearly as colorful to write for as Sirius. Those of you who have read my Harry Potter/Original Female Character of Color AU "The Alchemist's Daughter" might catch the reference to Percival College, the wizard college at Oxford....

As the golden ropes binding them to the secret they kept leapt from the end of Hermione’s wand and entwined Ron’s and Hannah’s wrists, Harry thought of Bill’s and Fleur’s wedding ceremony. Similarly to a marriage ceremony, Ron and Hannah looked like slightly different people once the Fidelius Charm was performed. They looked more mature, more defined, and, more serene, as if this is what they both needed. Hannah was wearing a dress that must have been her mother’s, a silky royal blue dress with a tie-neck which brought out her sea blue eyes. She had a rosy, Princess Diana-esque loveliness, and Harry realized how much time had passed since she had been that round-faced girl with pigtails. They had all grown up.   
When the charm was performed, all the wizards present felt a slight quake of charged air, and after a pregnant silence Hannah asked, “Did it work?”  
“Let’s see,” Hermione said, and handed her wand back to Harry.  
Harry, Hermione, Ron, Lupin, Melinda, and Hannah all went outside into the melting snow. The icicles upon the oak tree were also thinning and dripping, catching the winter sunshine and spinning it into glinting bits of color. Deer grazed determinedly at what scrubby grass they could uncover from the melted patches of exposed brown grass by the pond.   
Melinda gasped. “It’s gone!”  
Where the Tudor manor had been was, seemingly, an empty space of brown grass and melting snow.  
“Blimey…” Ron gasped. “Hermione, you did a bloody Fidelius Charm! That’s, like, Dumbledore level magic!”  
She smiled, gratified, but looked into Harry’s eyes. Harry was, of course, not surprised at her success, but astounded. This was the same charm that had been meant to protect his family when he was a baby. If there had been no Pettigrew, if he had not betrayed them, he would have grown up in this village…Hermione seemed to know what he was thinking.  
After marveling at Deerfield’s invisibility, they all went back inside. Given the war, Ginny’s illness, and everyone’s fatigue-Harry and Hermione from their travels, Hannah, Lupin, and Melinda from caring for others-the afternoon passed by drowsily. Kreacher prepared meals at the required times, and Hermione and Melinda prepared Ginny’s potions. Whenever she was awake, it was mostly Ron who was by her side. Harry had never seen them talk that way, in the kind of palpable confidence that gave him a new understanding of the phrase, ‘it’s a family matter.’ That was it, Harry realized: he had never fully appreciated, before, that Ron and Ginny were brother and sister, and what that meant. He had taken their relationship at face value: Ron couldn’t be bothered with her, she constantly insulted and made him the butt of jokes. But, that was just a superficial layer that, like the first whiff of a fragrance, had worn off to reveal a richer, deeper note. Ron showed a patience and compassion with Ginny that Harry had not expected of him, and Ginny was more tolerant and welcoming of his company than Harry thought she could be.  
He had known before he knew much of anything else that the Dursleys didn’t want him, and when he turned 11, he learned why. But, he wondered if there was a hidden note in Petunia’s feelings about Lily, and about him. Did she have any remorse that she had never voiced, perhaps did not even acknowledge in herself, a subconscious truth that had never been brought forth? He thought of how she had lingeringly looked at him before catching up with Dudley and Vernon. If she had it to do all over again, would she do things different with Lily, with Harry when he was a child?  
Looking at Ron and Ginny, for the first time he felt as if he could not slip into the familiar habit of acting as a member of the Weasley family. He saw, as when Mrs. Weasley complained about the security at Bill’s and Fleur’s wedding, that he was not one of them. There was no time left, anymore, to pretend. They, Ron, Ginny, and the rest of them, belonged to each other in a way that was deeper than compatible personalities, or enjoying each other’s company. Families didn’t always like each other-but, there was a reason that Voldemort had needed the bone of his despised father, who had abandoned him, to return to life: family was as deep as bone, the need for family written in the blood, and some form of family was an essential to survive.  
Harry ached, more thoroughly than he could remember in a long time, to have no family of his own. An echo of what he had felt in the graveyard threatened to open up in him like a black hole, but he resisted it.   
He felt the tickle of Hermione’s wild hair on his shoulder and neck as she slipped into the empty space by his side, where he stood outside Ginny’s door.  
“Professor Lupin’s written to Galton Scamander, to see if we can get Melinda into the Institute a bit early,” Hermione said. “all we can do is wait, now. The Scamander family are old friends of Dumbledore’s, so Lupin is hopeful that they’ll be obliging.”  
“Yeah, good,” Harry said.  
“ ‘Yeah, good’? Is that all?” Hermione said skeptically.  
“No, I mean, of course that’s great news,” Harry said. “I think I need some air.”  
“After traveling, staying in one place becomes difficult,” Hermione said sympathetically. “I was wondering…would you like to take a walk around?”  
“Around Godric’s Hollow?” Harry said.  
Hermione smiled, and said, “They do say the best way to explore a new place is in the company of a native.”  
“I haven’t been here since I was one, I think I’d be a poxy tour guide, unless you want to see the cemetery again. Fitting, since the only thing I know about this place is that my parents died here,” Harry said.  
Hermione’s face looked downcast, and the stars fell from her eyes, as her mouth turned down from its smile, which had been forced, but at least it had been a smile. Harry felt clumsy and guilty.  
“That was idiotic of me to say, I’m sorry,” Hermione said.  
“No, Hermione, I’m sorry. Its not you…its just…” Harry said.  
“Harry, we’re all terrified that Ginny won’t last until Melinda and Professor Lupin can get the phoenix tears. In fact, I was thinking of…another way,” Hermione said.  
“You think you know a cure to the curse?” Harry said.  
“Yes, but…” Hermione stopped, and looked around, as if afraid to be overheard. She cocked her head towards a drawing room, and Harry followed. She shut the door, and said, with a cautious expression. “You know Potions is my worst class, and this has to be done very precisely,” she said.  
“Hermione, Potions is my worst class-you got an O on your O.W.L., if I recall,” Harry said.  
“By the skin of my teeth! And only because they’re graded by the Hogwarts Governors’s office, not the Professors,” Hermione said.  
“There you go, an impartial body gave you the highest mark you can get,” Harry said.  
“At any rate, I think I can concoct something, but if it doesn’t work…it could kill Ginny,” Hermione said. “The ancient physician Hippocrates said that all poisons are medicines, and all medicines poisons, according to proportion.”  
“Okay…” Harry said.  
“We haven’t got phoenix tears, which are the closest magical medicine can come to a panacea outside of a distilled Philosopher’s Stone…but, we have got basilisk venom. The emperor of all poisons…but, also a highly negative magical substance, that can cancel out other ills,” Hermione said.  
“You think you can make a medicine out of basilisk venom?” Harry said, in awe.  
“We learned antidotes ages ago! Fourth year! Remember, Snape was so keen to test Neville’s on his toad, Trevor? I do remember the formula, I would just have to get the amounts right. And, as I said, the margin of error is quite literally one of life or death. My best friend’s life,” Hermione said, a keen note of fear at the end of her sentence.  
Harry caressed her shoulders, and looked into her eyes. “Hey…look at me,” Harry said. “If anyone can do this, its you. You made the Polyjuice Potion perfectly when we were just 12; the Ministry let you have a Time Turner when you were 13, and you used it to save Sirius and Buckbeak. You taught me Summoning Charms, and look at what you did with Marietta Edgecombe’s face: she may never be right!”   
Hermione burst out laughing at the last, but the harried look on her face soon returned. “But, Harry, that’s not all. I’ll also need…your blood.”  
“Mine? Why?” Harry asked.  
“Well, you’ve been healed by phoenix tears, and the caladrius feather. I know how you feel about Morgana…but, you must admit, everything she’s given us seems to be for a purpose, and always comes in handy at the right time,” Hermione said.  
“She nearly killed us!” Harry said.  
“Yes, but, she was challenging us, and she never left us without resources,” Hermione said. “I can use the basilisk fang on the dagger she gave Sirius, but…that will be it. What will we destroy the last three Horcruxes with?”  
Harry grasped at once, what she meant. They could take this shot at saving Ginny’s life, or destroy the Horcruxes.  
“Its like the cave,” Harry said. “Even if you do reach it, you have to take that horrible potion, that weakens you. You have to expose yourself, weaken yourself, as payment for what you seek.”  
Hermione looked gravely concerned, and took his hand.   
He looked into her eyes, and said, “Dumbledore would still be alive, if I had taken that potion. It should have been me.”  
“No! No, Harry! He didn’t want that. He told you to follow his commands, if you went along with him to the cave…and don’t you see, they were all to protect you? He did all he could to give you the best chance to fight Voldemort, and live. He stood between you and him for so long,” Hermione said.  
“Do you think he knew? That basilisk venom would get the Horcrux out of my body?” Harry asked.  
Hermione frowned. “I’ve thought about that…and no, I don’t think so. I think the Horcrux within you was the one puzzle Dumbledore couldn’t solve. From what you said he told you, Riddle’s diary was his first inkling that Voldemort had made Horcruxes, and the connection with him through your scar was his first confirmation of the fact that you were one of them-he avoided you because he didn’t know how far the connection extended,” she said. “I think he was trying to buy you both time, to figure out what must be done.”  
The answer, then, and the way forward was clear. If Dumbledore had weakened himself and sacrificed, to give him the best chance at life, then they must do the same for Ginny.  
“Hermione, we’ve got to make the antidote. Its what Dumbledore would have done. He gave up everything, to keep me safe, to keep me alive. We’ll be giving up the only tool we have to destroy the Horcruxes, but that’s okay. We’ve got to give Gin her chance,” Harry said.  
Hermione hugged him, and he felt her hot tears bedew his shoulder. He held her close, as close as he had the night before, feeling the pressing softness of her chest, and the softness of her waist. He wrapped his arms tight around her middle, and breathed in the smell of her hair.  
“But, what if there’s another?” Hermione said.   
“Then, I hope I have another ancient ancestor who’s been hanging out on a hidden island to give it to us,” Harry quipped.  
“No,” Hermione groaned. “Don’t you see? The Sword of Gryffindor! Dumbledore left it to you for a reason! Goblin metal is also an extremely negative magical substance that neutralizes other magics, and it was what you used to destroy Riddle’s diary! It kills Horcruxes, to put it rather crudely.”  
“So, basically, we make this antidote out of basilisk venom and my blood, and then break into Hogwarts and steal the Sword Of Gryffindor from Snape?” Harry said.  
“That seems to be the itinerary for the remainder of the Twelve Days of Christmas, yes,” Hermione said, with a bemused smile.  
Harry kissed Hermione’s cheek, and said, “Well, Happy Christmas, then.”   
She hugged him again, and said, “You do know that anyone but you would think my ideas are mad, don’t you?”   
“They are mad, Hermione. But, 1 out of 10 of them usually work.”  
“1 out of 10?!” she said, outraged.   
Harry held in his laughter, but it warmed his body with such warmth as he hadn’t felt in hours. He had hope, and as usual, she was the cause. 

They headed back to Ginny’s room to inform Ron of the plan, and saw not only Ron there but his and Ginny’s eldest brother, Bill, there as well. Bill was wearing a military green khaki jacket, a Bob Marley tshirt, and ripped jeans, his long fiery red hair wound into a messy bun, and he was gazing at Ginny with an intense benevolence that Harry found familiar, and placed it as the gaze the caladrius had given Hermione.  
“Harry, Hermione,” he said, his voice thick with sadness but suffused with warmth at the sight of them, and hugged each of them. Ginny was sitting up in bed, drinking a mug of one of Melinda’s potions.  
“Bill was telling me that Fleur’s redecorated Shell Cottage in the French style-whatever that means. Lots of lavender everywhere, I expect,” Ginny quipped. Bill smiled bemusedly.  
“We know how Hermione feels about lavender,” Ron said.  
“Oh, I’m over it,” Hermione said pointedly.  
“Gin, your pronunciation of Fleur’s gotten much better. Used to come out more like Phlegm,” Bill said.  
Ginny blushed as Harry hadn’t seen her do since she gave him a singing Valentine, and everyone laughed.  
“I didn’t know you heard me!” she said.  
“Gin, you’re about as discreet as a farting corpse. Just saying,” Bill said.  
Again, the little group laughed.   
“Well, I just didn’t think she was good enough for you,” Ginny said. “I changed my mind! Woman’s prerogative, you know.”  
“Yeah, of course,” Bill said. “Gin, I’ll be back in a moment, all right? Gonna catch up with Harry and Hermione.”  
The three of them stepped out into the hall, and Hermione said, “Lupin said you’d seen curses like this in Egypt?”  
Bill sighed, and said, “I was hoping it was Lord Caernarvon’s Curse-its got some gnarly respiratory affects, but there’s been a countercurse for it since the 1930s, if you catch it in time. No, this is different. This is Herpo’s Revenge.”  
Hermione gasped. Harry looked blank.   
“I know, it sounds like a particularly virulent STD. Herpo was a dark wizard who lived thousands of years ago. He was a Parselmouth, an ancestor of Salazar Slytherin, and the first wizard on record to create a vessel for his soul, that would keep him tethered to life if he physically died,” Bill said.  
“A Horcrux! You know about them!” Harry said, excitedly.  
“They’re such dark shit, most wizards don’t know too much about them, its true,” Bill said.   
“So, did Herpo live on after death, thanks to his Horcrux?” Hermione asked.  
“The record’s shaky. Some say he stayed on as a ghost, that other wizards wanting to get up to dark shit could call on, as a sort of guide,” Bill said. “His old stomping grounds were in what’s now Albania.”  
“Voldemort hid there. That’s where Quirrell and Wormtail found him!” Harry said.  
“Yup. Looks like he went there first as a relatively young man, did Dark Magic to raise Herpo, and ask after his methods,” Bill said.  
“Must have been easy for him to do, being his descendant,” Harry said, thinking with revulsion of the Blood and Bone ritual in the Little Hangleton cemetery.  
Bill nodded, looking impressed at Harry’s acumen, and said, “Well, too bad for us, especially Gin, that Voldemort took to Herpo’s expertise. That curse is one he devised millenia ago, for anyone who disturbed his Horcrux. It killed a Muggle archaeological team that found it back in the 70s. It was explained by medical examiners as blood poisoning from naturally occurring radioactive elements.”  
“So…the curse is as toxic as radiation?” Hermione said.  
“Yeah, but more targeted. It doesn’t give off a trace that can sicken people who come near. Since Gin absorbed the blast when Ron stabbed the Horcrux, its all concentrated within her. I have a theory about that,” Bill said.  
“Yeah? What is it?” Harry prodded.  
“I don’t think Riddle ever gave up on her. He…recognized her. He called to her from the locket, and his soul, once freed, latched onto her like a virus to a host. Because of the way she bonded with him, through the diary…well, I reckon its like what Nietzsche said about the abyss looking back,” Bill said.  
Harry felt cold with horror. The monster in his chest when he saw Ginny kiss Dean…the possessive, overpowering desire that had cast her in his dreams at night, firing his blood with things he had never felt so strongly before, and the way their kisses had strangely not satisfied his soul for all the ardor he had felt in the act of desiring her…it was just another echo of Voldemort’s emotions. It was him, who had wanted Ginny! Harry doubted that it was sexual, for Voldemort-he didn’t seem able to bond with others in the normal human ways, but Harry, a growing boy awakening to feelings of attraction, had misread the strong desire to be close to, even posses Ginny, somehow.   
“Bill…that’s horrible,” Hermione said.  
“There’s a wizard college at Oxford, called Percival College. Its where I did my training to be a Curse Breaker, and I consult the library there frequently, I’m going to head there and see what I can find about ol’ Herpo,” Bill said.  
Hermione put her hand on his forearm haltingly, and said, “Bill, I think I know a way, but…well, you know, its not strictly legal.”  
“The Ministry is Voldemort’s bitch: what are you worried about, exactly?” Bill said. Harry held in a shocked laugh.  
“Blood magic, Bill. How can I call myself a decent witch, if…but, on the other hand, its Ginny’s best chance, what if she can’t last the time it takes Melinda Bobbin to get in and out of the Scamander Institute…” Hermione deliberated out loud.  
“Hermione, whatever it is, this is the sort of time when black and white meet in the middle to a shade of gray. No one would hold doing something a little unorthodox for the right reasons against you, all right?” Bill said.  
“Blood magic,” she spit out, sounding shocked at herself for saying it. “I think I can make an antidote out of basilisk venom, and Harry’s blood. Its got phoenix tears and Essence of caladrius feather, in it, Harry’s blood.”  
Bill’s eyes widened, and he said drily, “Well. I guess they don’t call you the Chosen One for nothing.”  
“The only person who chose me was Voldemort,” Harry shot back gruffly.  
“And I can’t imagine a walk in your shoes, mate. I mean it,” Bill said. “are you willing? From what I understand of blood magic, it makes a difference.”  
“I’m willing,” Harry said.  
“Because it’s the right thing to do, or because you’re in love with my sister?” Bill asked.  
Harry felt a spike of indignance flare within him, but again the reality of family ties smacked him, and he realized Bill had every right to know if Harry had been a cad who broke Ginny’s heart.  
“We broke up a few months back. I think we’ve both gotten over it,” Harry said.  
“And this is why I never played Quidditch. Half the team hooks up, breaks up, takes sides, gets into rows, and everything turns into bloody “Holly Oaks” with the drama of it all,” Bill said.   
“You’re a globetrotting curse breaker and a member of the Order of the Phoenix-where have you been catching up on ‘Holly Oaks’?” Harry shot back.  
Bill laughed, and patted his shoulder. “That’s why I like you, Harry. You never stay down, or shut up, when you should. If you and Gin are still friends, you’re all right with me. And don’t worry about the antidote. Now’s the time to do the right thing, because it’s the bloody right thing, and not worry about breaking any laws. There is such a thing, you know, as getting into good trouble. I’ll be seeing you.”  
With that, he left them standing in the corridor, and was off, presumably, to Oxford. Harry smiled at the idea of Bill in those rarefied, venerable surroundings in his Bob Marley tshirt and Doc Martens. He turned to Hermione, meeting her eyes as she exhaled deeply. He could tell that she was giving herself permission to do what must be done.  
“Is blood magic such a big deal?” Harry asked.  
“Well, people who …aren’t very nice usually do it,” Hermione said.  
“You’re very nice…when you want to be. Nicer to house elves than people, mind, but still…” Harry said.  
She laughed, and he gently caressed her cheek, looking deeply into her eyes.


	24. Chapter 24

The night was a long one. Ginny woke up at various points in pain that made her cry out for help, and on those occasions everyone in Deerfield Hall woke up at once and started to her side. Ron and Hannah comforted her, while Harry and Lupin took direction from Melinda and Hermione as they brewed various potions for pain, cellular tissue regeneration, and sedation. The moans she made were childlike and pitiable, and Harry thought in painful contrast of the girl who had, in a glorious burst of spontaneity, flown her broom into the commentator’s box to punish Zacharias Smith. Had it been Voldemort, or him, Harry, who had exalted in her spiteful aggression, seen it as captivatingly daring? Either way, Ginny was far from that girl, thin and sweaty, moaning and shivering from the brief loss of the comfort of her blankets while Hermione changed her covers.  
Melinda Bobbin passed Harry carrying a handful of soaked sheets that smelled of seawater, and said, “She’s sweating buckets! That’s not good-the fever is going to kill tissue even faster.”  
“What can we do?” Harry asked.  
“There are a lot of fever reducers-goldenseal, elderflower, yarrow-but she’s too far gone for anything like that. This is a curse, Harry,” Melinda said.  
Harry felt childishly rebuked. Melinda continued, “Well, with a temperature this high, its no wonder her mind’s going….”  
“Her mind?” Harry asked.  
“She thinks she’s a kid. She asks for her mum, or talks to Ron like they’re both still kids: ‘Let’s catch frogs today,’ ‘let’s climb apple trees’. Maybe its for the best if she’s with her mother. Isn’t she out in Cornwall?”  
“Don’t do that! Don’t talk as if she’s dying, as if that’s it!” Harry said.  
“And don’t bloody shout at me,” Melinda said firmly. Harry took a step back.  
“Sorry,” he said.  
“I know you two were close,” Melinda said, and deposited the sheets in a hamper. “But, we’ve got to hold it together, all right? I’m out of my depth here, too. And I haven’t got any more idea how to get a phoenix to cry than how to get her fever down.”  
“What do you mean?” Harry asked.  
“So we get to the Institute, today. How the Hell do you get a phoenix to cry?” Melinda said.  
Harry realized he had not thought of that. Fawkes had cried because he was in the presence of Harry’s wound. How would the Scamander Institute’s phoenix provide the tears they desperately needed to cure Ginny? Like a caladrius, would they need to be in Ginny’s presence to stimulate tears? She could barely go a few minutes without blankets, she couldn’t travel to Wales.  
“I…don’t know,” Harry said.  
“Dumbledore had that phoenix, didn’t he?” Melinda asked.  
“Yeah,” Harry said.  
“Well?” Melinda asked impatiently. When Harry remained silent, she said, “Didn’t Dumbledore tell you anything?”  
“About how to tickle phoenixes to tears? No, he was usually too busy explaining the bare minimum of why I had most recently almost died. And I didn’t even get to hear all of that story until, like, 6th year,” Harry shot back.  
Melinda’s eyes widened, and as one does when a long held assumption is shattered, she seemed to become smaller and softer without the water weight of false conviction.  
“Wow. Everyone always figured…that you were his heir, or something. Like, an apprentice. He was always sending for you, alone in his office. We all figured he was teaching you things no one else got to learn,” Melinda said.  
Harry shrugged sarcastically, and said, “Like what?”  
“I…I don’t know. How to kill Voldemort, I guess. And other things…I mean, he was Dumbledore. He knew so much. We thought he was passing it on…to you,” Melinda said, and Harry saw by her darting eyes and the slight quaver in her voice that she wished the conversation would end, and was embarrassed.  
“I think I thought that would happen one day, too,” Harry said, sadly. “but, it wasn’t like that. Sorry to disappoint you.”  
“No, no! Not at all!” Melinda said, but Harry knew that wasn’t true, and in a way it was a relief to have a false assumption out of the way.  
How could he explain that he, too, at the start of his private lessons with Dumbledore, had assumed that he would be learning some kind of advanced Defense Against the Dark Arts, some secret tactic to defeat Voldemort from the wizard who had defeated Grindelwald? The only secret to defeating Voldemort, it seemed, was to know that he had once been an orphan boy called Tom Riddle, whose only pleasure had always been in dominating others, and whose greatest fear was to be dead, as his mother was dead, beyond ability to care for him and teach him about the world she had come from, the Wizarding World he had entered friendless and penniless, rising by his own wits, tricking people and using them for all they were worth rather than befriending them.  
Harry realized he was lucky. He had the protection of people like Dumbledore, Hagrid, Sirius, and Lupin, who had known his parents and remembered them fondly. In a macabre way, even being the Boy Who Lived had had its upside-he had certainly not entered Hogwarts a stranger in anyone’s mind. He had always been crowded by people who wanted to know him more, or better. Even Ron’s and Hermione’s first words to him had undoubtedly included, “You’re Harry Potter!”  
But, he thought now of what Hermione had said, “There are a lot of lonely people in our world, aren’t there?”  
Voldemort had started out one of the lonely ones…and was burning their world down to feel its warmth.  
“I should go wash these,” Melinda muttered, clearly glad of an escape. Melinda turned to walk away, when they both heard a shout of  
“NO!”  
Followed by Hermione saying, “Ginny, please!”  
Harry and Melinda headed back to Ginny’s sick room. She was beating the sides of the bed with her fists, sobbing, “I don’t want any more! No, no, no!”  
“You must take your potion,” Hermione said.  
“I don’t know who you are!” Ginny bawled.  
“Gin, Gin, you know me, don’t you? Its me, Ron…its all right. You’ve just got the flu. Remember, Percy and Charlie had it, too? But, they took their potions and got all better. You’ll get all better, too,” Ron said, rubbing her shoulders.  
Ginny’s breathing grew slightly calmer, and Ron eventually coaxed her to look in his eyes.  
“Can I ride on your broom?” Ginny asked.  
“Yes,” Ron sighed, “if you take your potion.”  
“No one ever lets me fly,” Ginny said. “and no one thinks I know anything about Quidditch!”  
“You know plenty. Let’s see if there’s a match on the WWN, all right?” Ron said, and clicked on small television that broadcast only the one wizarding television network.  
“Yay!” Ginny said, and clapped her hands. Her eyes lit up, and shone with girlish glee through the mask of her sickness, the dark circles under her eyes, the sweat shining on her brow, and the thin look she was taking on the more she suffered.  
Harry looked at Hermione, and there were tears shining in her eyes. Ron glanced at them, giving them permission to take a moment aside, and they silently communicated to him their gratitude, and that they would soon return.  
“She’s getting worse,” Hermione said. “I’ve never seen so cruel a curse.”  
They walked to the kitchen, and Hermione began pulling old fashioned copper pots and pans together.  
“Now?” Harry asked.  
“I think we must,” she said.  
She pulled the basilisk tooth dagger out of her bag, handled it gingerly, and placed it on the counter. Harry, without needed to be asked, began heating water for the potion. Hermione lay out several potion books, and opened them to the pages she needed. She was so quiet, that Harry, who did not have much experience with or inclination towards starting conversations about emotions, asked,  
“Hermione, are you all right?”  
“No! Ginny is so full of life. Its hard to see her this way,” Hermione said. “She’s so animated…even when she was running out of the room blushing ruby red when you were around…well, it was a little bit hilarious, to be honest. Those impressions she does of people, and her sense of humor… she’s always so lively, this isn’t her. And the last things she said to us, when she was wearing that locket…If this is the end, he took her chance to say goodbye to us, in her own words, in possession of her own mind! That wasn’t her.”  
Harry held in his theory that his attraction to Ginny had really come from his Horcrux. He didn’t feel that he knew the real Ginny, but Hermione was right, it wasn’t to be found in the effects of Voldemort’s curse. Determination shone from Hermione’s eyes, determination to give Ginny her life back. She broke the tip of the dagger, and placed it in the water, which frothed furiously, almost hissing.  
Hermione added some herbs, and then took a deep breath.  
“All right…Harry, I’ll need a drop of your blood, now,” she said, as if summoning all her courage for the process.  
“This really freaks you out, doesn’t it? Why?” Harry asked.  
“I find dark magic repugnant. This is closer to it than I ever wanted to get,” Hermione said. “how did you feel, after you used Sectumsempra? I mean, right after, before Snape and McGonagall got hold of you and told you off?”  
“When it was just me, and Malfoy? I didn’t want it. All the blood…and he was lying there, and I didn’t know if he was dead or not, and I just wanted to rewind time, change it all, make it different,” Harry said.  
“If you hadn’t felt that…well, I think that’s the difference between the sort of wizard you are, Harry, and someone like Voldemort, or Snape,” Hermione said. “we lose our souls a bit at a time. I appreciate Bill’s input, but all that about doing a morally ambiguous thing, for a good reason…I can only agree up to a point. There’s breaking a rule, breaking a law, but then there are other lines, once crossed, which do have a bearing on the state of one’s soul. Perhaps on the soul of the world.”  
“When Ginny came in…and took up for me…I was happy. I was glad. I didn’t understand why you were so angry at me. It was about my soul,” Harry said.  
“I could have articulated myself better. She knew how miserable you must have felt, it was how she felt after the Chamber of Secrets. You both don’t know how remarkable you are…look at Snape, and Quirrell, and Barty Crouch, Jr. They could never rise above what he had twisted them into. Neither of you let yourself become Voldemort’s creatures,” Hermione said.  
“Hermione…” Harry said, and struggled for the words to tell her how remarkable she was. Instead, he held out his hand, looking into her eyes to show her that he was willing.  
She touched the tip of his pointer finger with a knife, and a crimson pearl appeared at his fingertip. She only took as much blood as would be required to paint a diabetic test strip, and the red pearl fell into the hissing, frothing water.  
“Now, we just have to tend it,” Hermione said, and began stirring. Steam clung to her neck, and her hair became an appealing nest of wet curls, given wild volume by the moisture. The smell rising from the pot was less appealing-it smelled like ink.  
“Hermione….thank you,” Harry said.  
She turned to him, and said, “For what? The antidote? I always wanted a sister. Ginny’s been a sister to me. I’d do anything for her. We don’t have much in common, nor do we always agree-but that’s the wonderful thing about having a sister: we love each other, anyway.”  
“Not just that. The way you protected my soul,” Harry said. “and, I want to protect yours’ too, if I can. I want you to know, that you aren’t going dark. This isn’t dark, because you’re doing it to save Ginny’s life. You’re always fighting for the right reasons, Hermione.”  
Hermione smiled, and her face was radiant through the fatigue of their long night. She placed her hands on Harry’s shoulders, and as the steam curled and danced around them, they kissed. Harry felt so many things…gratitude, and an inexplicable ebullience. Hermione was alive, and well, and he was alive to hold her. The knowledge of that blazed vividly, and emboldened Harry to kiss her deeply.  
He felt proud of himself as she broke away, gasping, looking incredulous. Their eyes met, and laughter danced in their eyes and upon their lips. It was like their first kiss, a surprise.  
“I feel so close to you, right now,” Hermione said.  
Harry kissed the top of her head of voluminous hair.  
When the antidote was ready, Hermione poured it voluminously into a vial, and put a lid on the still steaming pot.  
“All right…moment of truth,” she said nervously.  
“It will work,” Harry said.  
They went back to Ginny’s room.  
“I can’t wait to go!” she was saying to Ron. “what do you want to see most?”  
“The ghosts,” Ron said.  
“Ghosts are boring!! I want to feed the Giant Squid!” Ginny said.  
“Shh, don’t get so excited,” Ron said.  
“I want to go to Hogwarts this year! Why do you get to go without me?” Ginny whined.  
Ron glanced at Hermione and Harry, appealing for patience and understanding. Harry understood, at once: she had gone back to being a 10 year old, her last year safely at home with her parents, before she had come to Hogwarts, before Tom Riddle. Maybe before he had seen her for the first time at the train station, running after the train, never breaking eye contact with him until the train left her behind. She had wanted something, so badly, that she ran with all her heart after it, and had been doing so, ever since: to have a relationship with Harry, to be a Quidditch player, to be considered equal to her brothers. Maybe that drive was all that was keeping her alive, now.  
“Ginny, I’m afraid I have one more potion, for you,” Hermione said patiently.  
Her enthusiasm faded, and her face became peevish and cross. “No! I don’t want any more!”  
“But, Gin, I’ll catch frogs with you if you take it,” Ron said.  
“I don’t care!” she said, and glared with childish fury at Hermione and said, “go away! I don’t know you! I don’t like you! Go away!”  
“Ginny, I’m very sorry, but you need this potion to feel better. To go to Hogwarts,” Hermione said.  
At this, she had Ginny’s full attention. “I want to go! Its not fair! Ron’s not even a full year older than me, its stupid, I want to go to Hogwarts!”  
“Well, that’s where Hermione’s come from. Hogwarts. Dumbledore sent her round, to have a look at you-you know who Dumbledore is, don’t you?” Ron said.  
Ginny rolled her eyes. “I’m not stupid, Ronny! Yes, I know who Dumbledore is!”  
“Ginny, you’re quite right, there isn’t so much difference in your age and Ron’s…and it would be highly irregular to let one of you in, and not the other. As long as you get over this flu in good time, we see no reason that you can’t come to school,” Hermione said.  
Ginny clapped and whooped, and bounced in her seat, on her bed.  
“But,” Hermione said firmly, getting her attention, “you must take this potion.”  
“Ugh, fine,” Ginny groaned, and took the antidote from Hermione’s hand. She drank it, and said, “It doesn’t taste like anything!”  
“That’s good, isn’t it? Some potions taste yucky, don’t they?” Hermione said sympathetically.  
Ginny nodded, and smiled. Hermione seemed to have earned her trust.  
“I like it here. There’s a TV. We watched Quidditch. Do you like Quidditch?” Ginny asked.  
“I do, actually,” Hermione said, and added, “but I don’t play it very well, unfortunately.”  
Ginny giggled. “That’s okay! I’m not good at chess.”  
“That’s all right. Let’s watch Quidditch until you fall asleep, all right?” Hermione said.  
Ginny nodded fervently. Hermione sat on the edge of the bed, and they both grew companionably silent, the room filled with the sounds of the Quidditch match on TV.  
“Merlin’s tit, she’s brilliant,” Ron said, and put his arm around Harry’s shoulder as they walked out into the corridor, and downstairs to the kitchen in search of leftovers from Kreacher’s dinner from the night before.  
Hannah burst into the kitchen wearing a cloak. Her shoulders were covered with snow, testifying that she had been out.  
“Harry, I need you to come to the Dog, Roebuck, and Lapwing,” Hannah said. That sounded like a spy code until he remembered that was Hannah’s family’s pub.  
“What’s wrong? Is it Sirius?” he asked.  
“No, but he wrote you, the letter’s in the library. No, its your aunt and cousin-they turned up there, needing sanctuary,” Hannah said.  
“What? The Dursleys?” Harry said. “Haven’t they got Aurors watching them?”  
He hadn’t thought the Dursleys faced much threat from Death Eaters-when Voldemort had the chance to target someone he knew that Harry loved, he had rightly chosen Sirius, rather than the Muggle relatives who made it clear they didn’t even consider Harry human. They were also being hidden by Aurors, and Harry had trusted that they would be safe.  
“I don’t know what happened. Come with me. Or, would you like them to be brought here?” Hannah asked.  
It struck Harry as deeply wrong that the Dursleys should be brought to Deerfield-he didn’t trust Petunia, especially, not to give the secret away if she thought it would somehow protect the family she did care about, Vernon and Dudley. What was the lives of everyone in Deerfield to her? They were wizards, “freaks” in her eyes, who didn’t matter, anyway. But Lupin, Ron, Ginny, Melinda, Hannah, and especially Hermione were worth a Hell of a lot more to him than the woman who had housed him in a cupboard, starved him, locked him behind barred windows and a door with a catflap, and called his mother a freak.  
“No, but get her out of the Dog, Lapwing, and Roebuck-she’s not safe around wizards,” Harry said.  
He felt cold inside, shaking with cold like a glacier breaking apart, as if he, like Ginny, was cursed with a fever.  
“No one there would hurt her!” Hannah said proudly.  
“No, but she’s dangerous. She hates wizards, I don’t know what she’d do or say if the wrong person got hold of her,” Harry said.  
Hannah looked alarmed, but said, “Yeah, all right. I’ll tell my cousin Syngin-he keeps the bar, there, I’ll let him know to watch her.”  
She was regarding him with a similar look that Melinda had, of surprise that had knocked loose an assumption. Harry felt slightly more charitable towards Hannah, because it was quite reasonable to have assumed that his aunt would have loved him.  
“You go, mate. I’ll hold it down here, all right?” Ron said.  
“Are you sure?” Harry asked.  
“Well, point of fact, man, I was here in Godric’s Hollow, doing all the drudge work while you had all the fun. Heir of Merlin, zipping through time and space with the most beautiful girl at Hogwarts by your side,” Ron said.  
Harry took in Ron’s blue eyes and smirk ,and realized gratefully that he was joking.  
“Most beautiful girl at Hogwarts?” Harry said.  
“Well, sure. In our year, definitely. You saw her at the Yule Ball. When did you start fancying her?” Ron asked.  
“I don’t think I ever fancied Hermione. I always loved her,” Harry said seriously.  
Ron gave him a satisfied clap on the shoulder, and said, “Well, that’s why she went with you, isn’t it? Go. See what’s up with your aunt and uncle. I’ll get Kreacher to make you a treacle tart, it’ll be waiting when you get back.”  
“Don’t eat any of it,” Harry said.  
“More of a pudding man, myself. Go,” Ron said.  
With no excuse not to, Harry followed Hannah out of Deerfield. Fresh snow had fallen in the night, and their footsteps disturbed the pristine spread of moonlight dusted white.  
“Full moon’s at the end of the week,” Hannah said, looking up at the dented, almost-full moon. “While Hermione’s at it, do you reckon she can do the wolf’s bane potion for Professor Lupin?”  
“He told you about his condition?” Harry asked.  
“He had to, since he’s stationed here, helping me out. And, I’d heard rumors. Why else would the boggart have turned into the full moon, when he stood in front of the cabinet, back when he was our professor?” Hannah said, as they headed to a garage. Hannah opened the door, and unlocked the door of a 1970s Ford Cortina.  
“Why not Apparate?” Harry asked.  
“Can’t. I didn’t pass the test. I hate tests,” Hannah said.  
“Oh, yeah, I remember that. O.W.L.s,” Harry said, getting into the passenger seat and buckling up.  
“Not my best moment,” Hannah said.  
“Nothing next to a Voldemort-induced seizure in the middle of the History of Magic exam. Don’t beat yourself up,” Harry said.  
Hannah smiled, and said, “That shouldn’t be funny…but it sort of is.”  
“Laugh lest you cry,” Harry said.  
“I used to be so afraid of…everything. Being laughed at or teased, having the right answer, and getting good marks. Now, I’m so busy doing so many things, I don’t have time to be afraid. Even though there’s a war on, this is the first time I’ve not been afraid of basically everything,” Hannah said, as she started the car.  
“Now, I guess, you know that you can handle it,” Harry said.  
Hannah smiled. “I think that’s it,” she said, and they began to drive along a snow bordered lane that led away from Deerfield. They were silent for a bit, as they drove beneath the bare oaks.  
Then, Harry asked, “Hannah…can I ask you something?”  
“Sure,” she said, but was looking intently ahead through the windshield, and gripping the steering wheel as if she was not the world’s most confident driver.  
“How come you never mentioned that you were from Godric’s Hollow?” Harry asked.  
“I reckoned you didn’t want to talk about your family, or be reminded about them. Its so sad, what happened. I thought it would…be insensitive. Make you unhappy,” Hannah said.  
No one he could recall had ever said that to him, before. People do assume that people or stories they have heard about in the news are fair game to be talked about in a way that would otherwise be considered judgmental, obnoxious, prying or downright cruel. ‘They knew what they were getting into, getting into the public eye’, ‘the people have a right to know’, ‘they owe it to their fans’ were the refrain of a public who assumed that knowing a face and hearing a story made that person some sort of community property, as near as a family member, as little considered as a public toilet, as disposable as an aluminum can.  
Harry looked at Hannah with new respect.  
“Are there any more people I’d know, from school, from here?” Harry asked.  
Hannah rattled off some names, and in some cases Harry just barely had a face to put with a name. He had never talked to some of them. People had reacted strangely to him at Hogwarts: they crowded to get a look at him, whispered about him, and sometimes asked him obnoxious questions, but no one had truly striven to get to know him but Hermione and the Weasley siblings. But, if his parents had lived, these would have been his childhood friends in Godric’s Hollow.  
Would they have had birthday parties at each other’s homes, gone caroling and Trick-or-Treating, gone to the same primary school, greeted each other in town when shopping with their families and scampered away at earliest convenience to the nearest park or candy store, played in the forests, swam in the rivers, and all excitedly talked about going to Hogwarts, debating, as Ron and Ginny had, what they wanted to see at the storied castle?  
“The ghosts!”  
“The talking portrait!”  
“The Giant Squid!”  
“Quidditch!”  
Each child would have their favorite, loudly proclaiming their position with the heated joy of happy, confident children. Harry had never known it. The Dursleys had loudly, with the threat of violence, mandated that he be as quiet as possible…so they could happily forget that he was around.  
As if reading his mind, Hannah asked, “How do you mean that your aunt hates wizards?”  
“She hated that my mum was a witch. She hated her, and hated having to raise me. I don’t know how she ended up in Godric’s Hollow, but I want you to be on your guard. This could be a trap for me,” Harry said.  
“You don’t think its really her?” Hannah gasped.  
Harry realized that Hannah was more clever than he had realized when they were growing up-she caught on quick.  
“I’ve known Death Eaters to use Polyjuice Potion, and I know Petunia Dursley: she wouldn’t set one toe over the threshold of a pub full of wizards,” Harry said darkly.  
“Unless she had nowhere else to go,” Hannah pointed out, and turned onto the road to the village.  



	25. Chapter 25

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry, Petunia, and Dudley have a reckoning; feeling low on faith, when he returns to Deerfield Harry is greeted by Hermione bearing good news.

Harry looked around at the snow-covered Tudor architecture of Godric’s Hollow. It was quaint and peaceful, with an old-fashioned, reverent Christmas hush.  
“I know. It looks like the opening scene of an episode of ‘Midsomer Murders’,” Hannah said, with fond disparagement.  
“It looks like a nice place to live, to grow up,” Harry said.  
“It is,” Hannah said. “I mean, I hear the adults-well, we’re adults now, too, but you know what I mean-talking and…it sounds like things used to be really easy going, before your parents’ death. They always seemed a little paranoid, like no one here ever really forgot, that once, Voldemort had walked here.”  
Harry didn’t know what to say to that, but asked,“Does anyone here ever talk about…what they were like, my parents? Not their deaths, but who they were. What they were like.”  
“Sure,” Hannah said. “Your dad grew up here. He sounds like Tom Sawyer-a very naughty boy.”  
Harry laughed. “Yeah, I’ve heard a lot about that,” he said.  
“And, they had the wedding here, of course,” Hannah said, “and the reception at the Dog, Lapwing, and Roebuck.”  
Harry laughed. “Really?” he said.  
Hannah smiled. “Yeah. My mum said everyone got pissed and sang ‘Heroes’ by David Bowie, near the end,” she said.  
Harry smiled. “Must have been how they were feeling, at the time, about winning the first war.”  
“They did win. There was peace, Harry, for a time. And there will be, again,” Hannah said.  
“You sound like Hermione,” Harry said. “are all smart women optimists?”  
“Are you being cheeky? I’m not as clever as Hermione Granger!” Hannah laughed.  
“Cleverness isn’t about marks on tests, Hannah. You’re amazing at all this, at sorting out problems and keeping the church and Deerfield safe places. Thank you,” Harry said.  
Hannah smiled, and looked more confident than he’d ever seen her. Even her grip on the wheel was more secure, as she piloted the Cortina down the Christmas card lanes of Godric’s Hollow. She pointed out monuments such as the bakery and a good coffeeshop, and Harry imagined summers where it was he who invited Hermione and Ron over to his home for the holiday, and they walked these streets together, him the native, as Hermione had put it, showing them into the café, greeting locals who had known him since his mother pushed him down the cobblestone streets in the pram, smiling down at his sleeping infant face…  
“Here we are,” Hannah said, and turned the car into the small car park outside yet another quaint Tudor building. The green sign read in fading letters, the Dog, Lapwing, and Roebuck. Hannah switched off the car and got out, Harry followed. They entered the warmth of the pub, and Harry looked around. The walls smelled like cedar, and the tables were crowded, all eyes glued to the same Falcons v. Kestrels match that Ginny and Ron were probably still watching on WWN. The bartender, a robust, rosy blonde man of about 25 wearing a fisherman’s sweater with the sleeves rolled up to the forearm of his thick arms, glanced over at Hannah.  
“That’s Syngin Selwyn, my cousin,” Hannah said. “Synge, this is Harry Potter, my friend from school.”  
“Harry Potter! Welcome to your local, mate! We owe you a pint for your seventeenth!” Syngin said.  
“It was a while back, but thanks,” Harry said genuinely. That was a much better welcome than, ‘Can I see your scar?’ or even, ‘You have your mother’s eyes’, which he never knew how to respond to.  
“What’s your team? Who’ve you got money on?” Syngin asked.  
“Erm, I like the Magpies, actually,” Harry said.  
“Ah….always a sure bet,” Syngin said.  
“Most championships in league history, you can hardly go wrong. My best mate, Ron Weasley on the other hand…” Harry said.  
“Don’t say it, Hannah’s told me, I think. Is he the kid that won’t give up on the Chudley Cannons?” Syngin asked.  
Harry and Syngin both laughed.  
“Synge, put twenty down on Falmouth for me?” Hannah asked.  
He raised a blonde eyebrow, and she responded, “Just don’t tell Uncle Bernard, all right?”  
Syngin laughed. “Gets tricky, having a vicar for an uncle,” he said.  
Hannah shrugged, as if saying ‘What Bernard doesn’t know won’t hurt him.’  
“Is he up at the chapel on the hill? Where my parents are buried?” Harry asked.  
“Yeah, you would have met him the other day if he wasn’t up at Percival College, trying to get the Council of Keepers to arrange sanctuary of St. Borondon’s,” Hannah said.  
Harry’s eyes must have crossed, because Syngin explained, “There are people called Keepers, in our world, who rather…regulate things. They can’t intervene too much, because it’ll get the Ministry’s back up. Sort of like how the Queen can reign but not rule, you know? Anyway, if they feel that enough of an emergency’s going on, they can create refugee colonies for wizards, in hidden places.”  
“The last one was Roanoke Island in Virginia, in the U.S., in the 1590s or something. It’s a big mystery for the Muggles, they think the place just disappeared. But, actually, the whole community hid themselves from a Dark Wizard called Ravenscroft,” Hannah said.  
“But, we can only do so much in Godric’s Hollow. Its time to use St. Borondon’s,” Syngin said. “that’s my opinion. But, I’m just a barman, don’t ask me.”  
“What’s St. Borondon’s?” Harry said.  
“Its an island explorers found a long time ago, and its uninhabited. Its meant to be like a sanctuary for magical plants and creatures, but if Britain ever becomes uninhabitable for wizards, its meant to be used to sort of start our community over. I reckon the Keepers don’t want to alarm people, or abandon our country and risk all the headaches that come with starting a new one,” Hannah said.  
“Our own country? A country of wizards?” Harry said.  
“Sort of. I reckon it would still be British, a sort of commonwealth nation? Its never been tried, it all does sound like a headache…but, what would Muggles do without us?” Hannah said.  
“That’s their problem! They’ve got militaries, and police, haven’t they? And I’m sure some people would stay, but they’d be like…ronin samurai, wouldn’t they? Just roaming free, not answerable to any Ministry, because there wouldn’t be one,” Syngin said.  
“And, that’s the problem. The Muggles can’t hold back the Death Eaters with their weapons and tactics, and those who stay and live with no law might become just as bad as the Death Eaters,” Hannah said. “But, Uncle Bernard is in favor of the exiles’ island, obviously. I’m just trying to get through the bloody night, myself.”  
“I can understand that. But, it’s a big issue, its got to be sorted one way or the other,” Harry said.  
“Are you in favor, or no, Harry?” Syngin said.  
“I’m just hearing about all this. I don’t know if wizards are any smarter at governing than Muggles, really,” Harry said. “but, we’ll see what happens.”  
Hannah gave a bemused snort, as did Syngin, and that vein of conversation seemed to end on a note of wryly bemused agreement.  
“Syngin, are my aunt and uncle and cousin here?” Harry asked.  
“Just your cousin, your aunt, and an Auror called…Tucks? Girl with pink hair?” Syngin said.  
“Tonks,” Harry corrected him. “good. Where are they?”  
He nodded his head upstairs.  
“Right then,” Harry said, and went upstairs. He spied Tonks talking in a low voice with Dudley, who was nodding. They both looked as if they were convening over vital information. They looked up when they saw Harry.  
“Bruv, s’been a long time, innit?” Dudley said, and gave Harry the sort of very hip handshake that turns into a hug. From Dudley, it felt like a wrestling move. He slammed into Dudley’s Number 23 Chicago Bulls jersey, and the wall of muscle beneath it.  
“Dudley, are you doing an impression of some sort?” Harry asked.  
“Nah, man,” Dudley answered, and Harry inwardly rolled his eyes, thinking, ‘Okay, so that’s what he’s doing these days.’ He couldn’t think of anyone more suburban than Dudley Dursley, but his cousin had decided to evoke a gritty cosmopolitan patois he had undoubtedly picked up from Dizzee Rascal.  
“What’s up, Big D?” Harry asked. “Where’s Aunt Petunia?”  
“Freshening up in what she insists on calling ‘The Little Girl’s Room,’” Tonks said, and added, “Wotcher, Harry?”  
“’Lo, Tonks,” Harry said warmly. “What happened?”  
Tonks looked grave, as she said, “Ambush. We left your relatives a Caterwaul-a device that emits a distress signal-but by the time they used it, Rowle was on the scene administering the Cruciatus Curse.”  
Harry was shocked. Not quite as upset as if the victim had been Hermione, Ron, any of the Weasleys, Sirius, or the residents of Deerfield, but still-no one should have to suffer the Unforgiveable Curses, especially not Muggles who couldn’t defend themselves.  
“What happened when you got there?” Harry asked.  
“Me and Kingsley held him off, and managed to Apparate away with your relatives in time. Your uncle is in St. Mungo’s, under a false name, being treated by people we trust, but we decided to take your aunt to the safehouse at All Hallows Church, on the hill,” Tonks said.  
“But, you’re here,” Harry said.  
“That’s how the network of sanctuaries work: generally, anyone on their way to All Hallows stops at the Dog to state their business,” Tonks said.  
“Right. Look, Tonks, I have something to tell you,” Harry said.  
Her eyes widened a bit expectantly, and she nodded, as if telling Harry to go ahead.  
He glanced at Dudley, and said, “Can we step outside? Its rather private.”  
She looked concerned. All of Tonks’s emotions always showed right through on her face. She and Harry stepped out into the corridor, and Harry said, “Sirius is alive. I don’t know if that changes things for you…and Professor Lupin.”  
Her face glowed, and her hair changed color from pink to green to blue like a Christmas lawn decoration. “Changes things?! Of course it does!” she laughed gladly, and said, “Where? When? How? When did you last see him? Are you sure its him?”  
“Um, its rather a long story, but I can tell you that he’s in Ireland. I think…he wrote me, but I’ve not had time to read it,” Harry said.  
“Its okay, that’s okay,” Tonks said hurriedly. “Does Remus know?”  
“Yeah, they’ve caught up, but…does this mean you two are splitting up?” Harry asked.  
Tonks frowned. Her hair had settled on an amethystine lavender on one side, and a magenta pink on the other.  
“What? No, it means we’re whole. I can tell Sirius has been telling tales out of school,” Tonks said. “How much did he tell you?”  
“That you two were…involved,” Harry said delicately.  
“I’d die for him,” Tonks said.  
“He’d die for you, too,” Harry said.  
“Trouble is, he almost did,” Tonks said. “I thought he had. And so had Remus. And he lost him once, before…” she shook her head, as if near death experiences were now totally forbidden on Sirius’s end.  
“Harry, we’re all together. The three of us-me, Sirius, and Remus,” she said.  
Harry somehow felt that he wasn’t shocked at all. In face, it made more sense and was a more congenial arrangement than one out of the three being left out of the cold and unhappy.  
“Its not just some kind of…fetish. Its an emotional thing. It’s…just sort of what happened, and it can be pretty perfect, sometimes,” Tonks said.  
“I’m happy for you. All of you,” Harry said.  
“I’ve got to meet back up with Kingsley,” she said.  
“Is there anything you want me to tell Sirius if I see him before you do?” Harry said.  
“Yeah-that I’m pregnant, so he’d better not go fall into any more murderous curtains. Remus and I need him,” she said.  
Harry was gobsmacked, but strove to hid it well. With a jaunty wave, Tonks was off.  
Harry returned to Dudley just as Petunia was coming out of their room’s adjacent lavatory. Her watery blue eyes widened. She was wearing a pleated midi skirt of stiff brown polyester, a pink blouse and cardigan, and a heavy plastic pearl necklace. She froze against the door she had just closed, looking at Harry as if he were a ghost.  
“Mum…” Dudley said warningly, as if he thought Petunia was going to attack Harry. She did have a stiffness reminiscent of a cat warning off another animal in proximity of its territory, but Harry quickly realized that it was fright, not aggression.  
“What do we do?” Petunia asked, as if he had never been the tearstained faced, urine soaked little boy, the little boy in the cupboard, but was a superhero that had just flown in. He felt embarrassed for both of them and desperate to either jump out the window or, like a Metamorphmagus, become someone else, anything to escape this conversation and being looked at like that.  
“About what?” Harry said.  
“ABOUT WHAT?!” Petunia raged. There was the impatient fury Harry knew so well. He almost felt better with her yelling at him, than seeming to need him. “THOSE…PEOPLE TORTURED MY HUSBAND! AND YOU ASK ME, ABOUT WHAT?!”  
“You’re here now, aren’t you? Be glad you didn’t lose your bloody mind, if it really was the Cruciatus Curse. A mate of mine, his parents were Aurors, finer, braver, more decent people than you and your pathetic husband will ever be, they were tortured by a group of Voldemort’s most loyal servants, and they’ve been looking up at the ceiling drooling, saving gum wrappers to give as Christmas presents for 17 years,” Harry said savagely.  
Petunia gave a little yip, and her eyes widened.  
She sat on the bed, and tore at her blonde hair for a bit, then looked deflated, and sighed.  
“I’m sorry! Its just…he promised to protect me, from all this,” she said despairingly.  
“I really don’t see how,” Harry said.  
She glared indignantly in his direction, and said, “By giving me a normal life, keeping me well away from…magic, and Dark Lords, and getting blown up, and dirty schools in dirty castles…what sort of school teaches people to kill each other when they get out?!”  
“You honestly think Voldemort learned what he knows at Hogwarts?” Harry said.  
Petunia shook her head in disgust, and said, “I tried with you. I tried to get you to stop doing magic. But they’d already taught you, hadn’t they? Lily had to make everything around her so…so…magical. Charming clocks, making tea cups dance…normal life bored her after she went off to that dirty school..”  
“If you’re going to have a go at my dead mum in the village where she died and was buried, then you can bloody well leave, and take your chances out there, and end up like Vernon,” Harry said sharply.  
Her eyes widened again, and Dudley intervened, saying, “Mum, just don’t? It doesn’t matter if you hated her, she’s dead.”  
“I didn’t hate her!” Petunia said frantically.  
“Lie to yourself, fine, but don’t lie to me. You hated my mum, that’s why you hate me. That’s why you made me clean your house, cook your meals, and sleep in my piss when I wet the bed. You’re a sadist. You like making people hurt, and kids are easy victims who can’t get away, who won’t be believed if they tell on you,” Harry said. He was shaking, and he felt his voice rising, but he didn’t care.  
“No! No! No!” Petunia cried, hitting the bed with her fists with each refutation of Harry’s claims, looking wildly around for defense, as if looking for Vernon to back her up.  
“Your father-” she began.  
“I DON’T CARE! I DON’T CARE WHAT YOU HAVE TO SAY ABOUT MY FATHER! WHEN I ASKED YOU ABOUT MY PARENTS, YOU HAD NOTHING TO SAY! YOU TOLD ME TO STOP ASKING QUESTIONS!” Harry roared, and added, “So I did. I stopped. I did everything you ordered me to, and you still hated me!”  
“I DON’T HATE YOU!” Petunia said. “I was trying to fix you, but you were just like her! You liked it! You did magic all the time! Just like her…I tried to do everything I could to get you to stop. It only seemed to happen when you were…happy…or playing…so I…I thought….”  
“You thought if you made me bloody miserable, I’d lose my magic? Do you know what could have happened, you stupid cow?!” Harry said.  
“OY!” Dudley said, and stood between Harry and Petunia as if he thought Harry would strike her. Harry nearly laughed from anger and indignation at the thought. When had he ever used his hands at the Dursleys? It was Vernon who shook him so that his vision blurred, Dudley who punched him, and enticed Piers and the rest to do the same….  
“That’s my mum. She won’t start in on yours, if you leave it off, all right?” Dudley said.  
Harry realized that his breath was coming in heavy and labored, and he felt lightheaded.  
“What I mean is, when someone’s magic is all bottled up inside them, and they can’t use it, it doesn’t go anywhere. It comes out in bursts, violent bursts. Its called being an Obscurial,” Harry said.  
“Yeah!” Dudley said, in recognition. “Like when you jumped onto the roof! Maybe you were one of them!”  
“No, much worse than that. I could have blown up your bloody house, if things had kept on the way they were, me having more incidents, and you all grinding me into dust with the way you treated me,” Harry said.  
Petunia looked shellshocked, and in a thin, weary voice, said, “I thought….I never knew…he never said anything like that…”  
“He, who?” Harry spat disgustedly.  
“That awful boy,” she said. Harry had heard her refer to his father that way once, before, when he had fought off Dementors on Privet Drive.  
“I told you to leave off my dad,” Harry said.  
To his surprise, Petunia laughed, incredulously, and said, “Don’t be ridiculous. Severus isn’t your father!”  
“Snape?” Harry said, in disgust. “You’re talking about him?”  
“Lily, and Severus? She would never! Oh, he wanted it, bad. That was all he ever wanted out of her, but she was naieve, when it came to people’s intentions. First there was her precious Severus, following her around like a starved junkyard dog, with his vile potions, lording all his precious magical knowledge over her as if he was doing her a favor by being her friend, and telling her all about Hogwarts like it was his ancestral estate. Then your father, who actually was a terrible snob, who thought Vernon and I were to be seated below the salt,” Petunia raged. “he dragged her into his war. I told her to leave, to just stay clear of the whole business! He wanted the glory of fighting a dark wizard, and he dragged my sister to her death! Maybe she knew all about magic, but Lily was an idiot when it came to people. Now, look at you: following right after the both of them, fighting this war. Can’t you see for yourself how dangerous magic is?!”  
“Look, I don’t know how my father was, or who he really was. I can’t say whether he was a snob or not…but Snape is a murderer. He killed Dumbledore,” Harry said.  
Petunia looked stricken. “Dumbledore…dead? No!”  
Harry was surprised. She had the same grief stricken disbelief as the first people he’d told the news to, that terrible night at Hogwarts. Harry looked at her closely. She was the same Petunia Dursley, but he never would have anticipated this from her.  
“Severus…killed him…?” She stammered. “I always thought he was foul, but…”  
“He’s a Death Eater. Voldemort’s most loyal. He betrayed my mum to him,” Harry said. “He’s headmaster at Hogwarts, now, but its Voldemort’s fortress, really. That’s the state of things.”  
“I told her! I told her, that he was creepy, and foul! He…he hit me! With a branch from a tree, he made it break off, and fall on top of my head! I was a little girl, I could have died! She said she wouldn’t talk to him any more, but she lied to me, she lied, she went off with him, she couldn’t keep herself from hearing all about Hogwarts…she chose him over me!” Petunia shrieked, in the tone of a prissy child, tattling on their playmate, but hysterically.  
Dudley and Harry looked at each other with shared panic.  
Dudley sat beside Petunia, and put his beefy arms around her shoulders.  
“Mum! You’ve gotta breathe!” Dudley said.  
Petunia began taking deep breaths.  
“Severus…killed Dumbledore…for Voldemort…and Hogwarts…is gone?” Petunia said, and with a keening moan, sobbed, “Vernon…” as if he could fix all of these tragic events.  
When she had regained her composure a bit, she said, “What are you going to do?”  
“Fight,” Harry said simply.  
“You’re just like her; you always choose magic! That’s how she died. Magic killed her, Harry,” Petunia said. “I didn’t go about it the right way, but I was trying to keep magic from killing you, too.”  
“Muggles die the Muggle way. Wizards die by magic. I don’t know if any of us have any choice about it,” Harry said harshly.  
Petunia gave him a curious look, and he couldn’t decide how she had taken his words.  
“Harry, where do things stand? Are you lot winning the war?” Dudley asked.  
Harry sighed. “That’s hard to answer,” he said. “Like I said, Voldemort’s got Hogwarts, and he has the Ministry, as well. Anyone fighting him is pretty much…”  
“Apostate,” Petunia said.  
It was a word of such old fashioned, spiky grandeur, Harry hadn’t expected to hear it from his aunt, who was blandly respectable but not strictly “posh”, who lived in a world of hair appointments, casserole recipes, and magazines that tracked the scandalous doings of both the members of the royal family and the Spice Girls with equally rabid interest.  
“That’s what he called people who wouldn’t join him. And it was fair game on them. And their families. Didn’t you ever wonder why you don’t have any grandparents?” Petunia said, with a nasty satisfaction, as if she had proved her point, then burst into tears once more. Dudley, who’d tortured smaller things for fun as a child, looked as out of his depth as Harry would be flying a plane patting his sobbing mother’s back.  
“My mum…Voldemort wanted her to join him, and she said no,” Harry recalled.  
“It was too late, by then! He killed them! Another man that Lily brought into our lives, ruining everything! My parents…” she sobbed, holding her face in her hands.  
“Do you believe us? Harry, we need your help. We’re not here to hurt you,” Dudley said.  
Harry was surprised that Dudley had guessed, without Harry saying, that he was initially suspicious of them. But, of course his first tormentor would be fine tuned to his apprehension.  
Harry felt heavy, beneath the weight of these revelations, what he had been told and pieced together: Petunia resented his mother for leaving her for the Wizarding World, and for continuing to befriend Snape though Petunia didn’t like him, and that Voldemort had killed his maternal grandparents as retaliation for his mother’s refusal to become a Death Eater…he didn’t know how to feel about the idea of a magically demented Uncle Vernon at a wizard’s hospital in London. He had to admit, there was a time when he would have found it hilarious.  
Harry felt a dire need for a sandwich. He thought of Hermione’s voice, so clear and bright and sweet, as she sang, “So this is Christmas/and what have you done?”  
What, indeed. Harry’s brain seemed to have split like a viscous amoeba under a microscope, divided into halves that all had a different monomania: a brain devoted to where things stood with him and Hermione, to the Horcruxes, to the Peverell symbol, to Dumbledore, to Voldemort. He was crucified in quarters.  
“No more about my parents, or how much you hate magic,” Harry said. “Stay here, I’ll look in on you tomorrow morning.”  
Petunia was too far gone in her distress, but Dudley nodded his thanks with palpable, earnest gratitude.  
“Harry! Falmouth won!” Hannah said happily, bursting into the room, looking bright and cheerful. Dudley gave her a once over, she felt it and looked deflated, then glared at him.  
He raised his eyebrows in surprise and the most shallow of apologies-the sort of gesture inviting a woman to laugh it off and implying that she was making a scene, all at once.  
“That’s brilliant, Hannah. So, you’re 20 galleons richer?” Harry asked.  
“And its all going to the church, of course,” she said, with a little wink. Harry laughed.  
He was seeing new sides of people he thought he had always known: a multifaceted and capable Hannah, Ron a devoted brother, Dudley a reasonable peacekeeper, Petunia a woman with complicated memories and regrets. And Hermione…  
The sweetness of her lips, the warmth and softness of her body, and her voice which always called to him like the chiming bells of a church at noon and six in the evening, calling him inside to clear his mind, devote himself, and pray.  
“All right?” Dudley greeted Hannah.  
“Hannah, this is my cousin, Dudley Dursley. And my aunt, Petunia. This is Hannah Abbot, my friend from school,” Harry said, with a bit of a protective catch in his voice, since Dudley was so obviously making a play for Hannah.  
“This you, mate?” Dudley asked, cocking his head toward Hannah.  
“Do you date all your friends from school?” she fired back. Harry held back a laugh.  
Hannah turned her attention back to Petunia, and said, “Mrs. Dursley, do you need anything?”  
Harry braced himself. Petunia would surely balk at a witch’s hospitality. Instead, she looked up at Hannah as if she doubted how real she was, in a sort of stupor. When she spoke, she said,  
“Dumbledore is dead.”  
“Yes, Ma’am. This past June. Just before the end of the school year. Happened at Hogwarts,” Hannah said.  
“I wrote to him…when I was a girl. I asked to be let to go to Hogwarts, too,” Petunia said. “My sister, she’d gotten her letter, and I didn’t get one…it wasn’t fair. I was older than her. The magic…should have gone to me. Or, we could both have it. That would be fair! But I’m…a Muggle.”  
Harry had never heard her say ‘Muggle’ before, and she said it with such palpable sadness and shame. The way she normally said ‘Magic’ if she had to say it at all.  
“It happens that way, sometimes, Ma’am. And people whose family are all magic, but they haven’t got any, we call them Squibs. Seems to me maybe we shouldn’t go around calling each other anything but human beings, really,” Hannah said. “there’s nothing wrong with being a Muggle.”  
“Lily was special. I wasn’t,” Petunia said.  
“That’s not true, Mum. You’re really good at…cleaning the house,” Dudley said.  
Hannah looked at him as if he had forfeited the slim measure of good will she was granting him, and Harry looked at him with weary incredulity.  
“Harry, I don’t think they can do any harm. Why not bring them home?” Hannah asked.  
He sighed. “Fine. Maybe Deerfield is the safest place for them,” he said.  
Hannah shared the secret of Deerfield Hall with Dudley and Petunia, and they left the pub and drove back through the village in the Cortina. Petunia was looking out the window, but Harry didn’t see her usual expression of finding fault with everything. Instead, she seemed to be looking at a place she had long been curious about.  
“Where is it? Your house?” Petunia asked.  
“It’s a little ways outside the village,” Hannah said.  
“No, dear, not you,” she said, with more politeness and care than she had ever spoken to Harry, and he realized that her original question had been meant for him.  
“I don’t know,” Harry said. “I’ve never been here, before.”  
“Neither have I,” Petunia admitted.  
That meant, Harry deduced, that she hadn’t gone to Lily’s wedding, or seen the home she had shared with James and Harry.  
Was his mother another of the lonely people Hermione had spoken of? Secret wars and broken families, people left behind and torn apart-Harry felt an oppressive sadness that the Wizarding World that had presented him a delightful alternative to his life with the Dursleys had such a cruel side to it.  
Hannah had called Deerfield home, in a way that meant not just her home, but included everyone. He felt the expanding of his heart and his very soul letting go of all apprehension and pretense as he saw the moonlight on the snowy lawn, and the icy oak trees crowding the Tudor Manor. He could see it, because he had been told the secret. When they got inside, Harry caught sight of Hermione at the top of the stairs. She ran to him, smiling brightly, her radiant happiness shining through her fatigue.  
“Harry! Harry, come upstairs! Its Ginny!” she said, grabbed his hand, and pulled him along.  
She pulled him to Ginny’s room. Melinda and Ron were there, and their eyes darted to Harry as he walked in. Hermione glanced at him with a tremulous smile, threatening to become happy tears. She clasped her hands together in pleasant anticipation. He looked at Ginny, and saw that she had been restored: gone were the dark circles under her eyes, the sweat, and even her thinness had filled out, and her hair was no longer dark and wet but healthy and bright. She was sipping potion, but looked happy and healthy.  
“It worked,” Hermione said. “Harry! The antidote worked!”  
He smiled, and squeezed her hand.  
“Second time you saved my life. I want to make it count, this time,” Ginny said.  
“Gin, you always counted,” Ron said. “You never had to prove yourself, or chase anything. We love you.”  
“Its true. Ron is right. We all love you, Ginny,” Hermione said, and hugged her. Harry was warmed by the sight of them. Ron looked at him, and smiled, as did Hermione and Ginny.  
Harry felt a hot, stinging feeling in his eyes, and the sight of the three people he cared about most blurred, stretched, and filled with light…he realized that he was crying. Hermione realized it too, and swiftly went to his side, wrapping her arm around his waist. He felt the warm weight of her head on his shoulder, and finally, he had faith once more that magic was not just something to fight a war over, it could work miracles.  



	26. Chapter 26

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry and Hermione make up for lost time; Dudley and Ginny connect

The main event of the Christmas holiday continued to be Ginny’s recovery. Molly and Muriel were notified of what had happened, and came directly to Godric’s Hollow. The trip to the Scamander Institute was cancelled, and Melinda Bobbin regarded Hermione with professional awe from then on, not-so-subtly urging her to become a Healer. Petunia, apart from the revulsion Harry thought she would show at being in a home of wizards, seemed determined to make herself useful, and was helping Melinda and Hermione prepare potions while Lupin wrote a flurry of letters, and sent them by Ron’s owl, Pigwidgeon, and Hannah went back and forward between the sanctuaries.  
Harry couldn’t tell if her adeptness came from her housekeeping experience, potion brewing being similar to cooking, or if she had not tried out some potions from Lily’s old textbooks when her sister was away at school. Harry avoided her. There was nothing to say.  
He hadn’t seen enough of Hermione, either, in the flurry of activity around Ginny to which she was so central. She came into bed after him, and he felt her back against his, her body curled around his or his against her’s, and their arms around each other, but sometimes her space in the bed was empty when he woke to the morning light.  
“Twelfth night,” Hannah said. “last day of Christmas. Its usually a big deal, around here.”  
“Oh, yeah?” Harry asked idly, as they folded some freshly laundered blankets to be taken to All Hallows.  
“Yeah, people have big parties. I hear your grandparents used to go a bit all out: games and a Lord of Misrule, a boar’s head with mustard, masques, and a fancy cake, and all. Even the Muggles came, and thought they were just eccentric rich people intent on keeping old British culture alive. People used to do all those things, you know, before the Church of England was formed. Now, wizards keep it up,” Hannah said.  
“Well, I don’t know anything about Lords of Misrule and all that, but I’ll tell Kreacher to make dinner special, tonight, and we can take it up to the church. Everyone from the Dog can come to All Hallows, and it’ll be like Christmas Eve,” Harry said.  
“House elf food?! Like rich purebloods? That’ll be even better than Christmas Eve, that was mostly supermarket food, you know, pre cooked or from cans and heated up. This is so much better!” Hannah said delightedly, and hugged Harry.  
Hermione stood at the eaves of the door to the cellar used as a laundry room and storage closet. She had a bemused, but not best pleased smile on her face, and subtly cleared her throat.  
Hannah and Harry broke apart, and without missing a beat, Hannah announced, “Hermione, guess what? Harry’s going to have his elf make a Twelfth Night dinner for everyone in sanctuary! Everyone from here and the Dog is going to head up to All Hallows for it! This is so kind. You know, I think its nice to have a Potter around Godric’s Hollow, again.”  
“Thanks, Hannah,” Harry said, but he hoped Hannah understood that he hadn’t meant to end up in his birth village, and didn’t know if he would stay.  
“I’m going to send word to Synge and Uncle Bernard, all right?” Hannah said.  
“Has Bernard returned? What did they say up at Oxford about St. Borondon’s?” Hermione asked.  
“Haven’t caught up with him about it, but I hope they’ve said yes. I’m starting to agree with Synge…maybe we wizards need a fresh start,” Hannah said, and headed out of the room.  
Hermione strode slowly across to Harry, where he stood in front of the washer, dryer, and laundry basket.  
“Classic Eurocentric attitude-when its all gone belly up in the Fatherland, let’s subdue a virgin wilderness with our ideals as a tabula rasa. But, what of what and who is already inhabiting said virgin wilderness?” Hermione said.  
“Something tells me people could go hoarse debating the St. Borondon’s question,” Harry said. “I don’t know…maybe it could be nice. I know I haven’t lost much in the Muggle world.”  
“I have,” Hermione said.  
Harry’s eyes widened. “Hermione…I’m an idiot. Your parents. Of course, you can’t leave them,” he said.  
“I did leave them. But, to not even live in the same dimension as them. We’re already continents apart, and they can’t remember me,” she said, looking away from Harry, out the small window that streamed sunlight into the small brick room.  
Harry put his arms around Hermione, and she sank gratefully into his embrace. It had been a long, hard few days, and they hadn’t seen or felt enough of each other.  
“I haven’t been avoiding you. I just wanted to see Ginny through this,” Hermione said.  
“You’ve been amazing. Hermione, you came up with the antidote, and you brewed it. And you’ve taken such good care of her. Its been rather hard, not being able to spend enough time with you. But, I know how we feel about each other. And I know how brilliant you are, and that I have to share you with people who need you,” he said, looking into her dark brown eyes, the very color of soft, milk chocolate.  
She smiled gratefully, and Harry felt so tenderly towards her dear face.  
“Thank you, Harry. You’ve no idea how much that means,” she said. “and I know who you’ve been avoiding. It isn’t me-its your aunt, isn’t it? Its hard to be around her.”  
“There’s just nothing to say,” Harry said.  
“No, I think she certainly has some explaining to do. But, no matter what her idea of her motivations might be, you were the one who had to suffer the fruits of her ignorance, and its hard to forgive,” she said.  
“Will I always want to punch something just knowing that she’s around?” Harry asked.  
“I hope one day, you can forgive her so that your soul and your heart will be free of the burden of hating her. Not to excuse her, or let her off the hook, but to stop giving her the ability to make you suffer by laying down the burden of your memories of that suffering, and your anger that it happened when you were innocent and vulnerable. She did abuse your trust and vulnerability. But, she doesn’t have to be given the power to ruin the rest of your life,” Hermione said, looking deep into his eyes, and caressing his cheek.  
“I wish I’d had someone like you, then,” Harry said. “I couldn’t see, for so long, how much I loved you, and the way that I love you, because I needed you to be…my family. And I know that you told me not to make you everything, but Hermione, you are: everything.”  
“Harry…” she said, that one word, his name, so laden with all the warmth and love he had always needed.  
Harry kissed her deeply, and held her close. Her preciousness overwhelmed him, and he found his arms around her waist, and they moved in effortless rhythm as Harry lifted her to sit on the dryer, and Hermione wrapped her legs and arms tightly around him. They paused their kiss to breathe, and sunlight shone in a slanted ray in the brief space between their faces.  
“I love you,” he murmured.  
“I love you, too,” Hermione said. “When Christmas is over-”  
“Christmas isn’t over, yet. Give me Christmas?” Harry interrupted.  
Hermione smirked, and nodded. They kissed again, wild to make up for lost time in which they had both been caring for everyone else.  
Hermione was an enthusiastic kisser. She could spend hours in quiet study in the library, and was highly logical, but Harry knew better than anyone that she had another side: the side that had leapt astride Buckbeak and a Thestral that she couldn’t even see, hiked a mountain to visit Sirius with Harry, accompanied him to stop Quirrel from stealing the Philosopher’s Stone, and had been by his side from the moment he decided to hunt the Horcruxes, as well as faced the challenges of the Ether. She lived with her whole heart, and was capable of a range of courage that propelled her into the heart of any risk or dare with a tsunami’s sudden force. He felt it as they kissed, and she gave herself entirely to letting go and showing him her ardor. Harry didn’t feel as if either of them were in the lead, but as if he was in the middle of a great wave, and all he could do was surrender his weight to it, let it carry him, lest he struggle against it and drown.  
His hand slid along the soft skin of her belly, under her blouse, and Hermione’s hand came firmly around his wrist.  
“No!” she said.  
Harry smarted, and pulled away, instantly retracting his hand.  
“Hermione, I’m sorry,” he said.  
“No, no, its all right. I suppose we need to talk about this sort of thing,” she said. They sat on the floor of the cellar together.  
“I’m not ready for that,” she admitted. “I always figured I would feel it, when I am. I didn’t feel that way with Viktor, and I don’t feel that way, now. I want to, one day, and preferably, I want to, with you…but, it doesn’t feel like the right time.”  
“I understand,” Harry said.  
“Really?” Hermione asked.  
“Yeah, really. Hermione, I care about you, and I respect you,” Harry said.  
She smiled warmly, and relaxed considerably.  
“Not every boy would respond that way,” Hermione said.  
“Well, one of the plethora of perks of falling in love with your best friend,” Harry said.  
She nodded vehemently, and they regarded each other with warmth.  
Hermione helped Harry fold the rest of the blankets, and as they were walking upstairs with them, Dudley stood in their path.  
“Can you talk some bloody sense into her? She needs to lie down!” he said.  
“Aunt Petunia?” Harry asked.  
“What? No, Mum’s fine. But, Ginny’s gone mad. Well, madder,” he said.  
“Look, Dudley, if her mother can’t get through to her… She’s been cooped up in her room, watching Quidditch matches round the clock, and she’s determined to keep up her training,” Hermione said. “its her dream to play professionally, you know, and she does have to get some exercise every day to keep getting stronger.”  
“Taking a walk by the pond is one thing, but flying on a broom, in her state?” he said.  
“We’ll play it as it lays. Wizards recover remarkably fast,” Hermione said reassuringly.  
“Well, I’m going out there, to make sure she’s all right,” Dudley said, and stomped away.  
“What was that about?” Harry said.  
Hermione looked bemused, and her eyes sparkled with a secret.  
“What? Spit it out, Hermione,” Harry said.  
“Well, let’s just say, maybe Ginny was with the wrong cousin, for a bit there,” Hermione said.  
“Ginny…and Dudley?” Harry said.  
“Well, granted, its only been a few days, but they rather…hit it off. They were introduced, and he said, ‘Weasley? Was it your sociopath twin brothers who almost strangled me to death with that candy?’ whatever that was about, and she said, ‘Yeah, it was, and they live in Las Vegas and have mafia connections, now,’ and that was that. He looked terrified, and he’s been waiting on her hand and foot, sitting with her, and taking walks with her ever since,” Hermione said.  
Harry and Hermione heard a shout of, “YOU DON’T TELL ME WHAT TO DO, DUDLEY DURSLEY! I’M GOING TO BE BACK IN QUIDDITCH SHAPE IF IT KILLS ME!”  
Dudley’s response was not quite as audible, and Ginny’s answer was a slamming door. Harry and Hermione went to the nearest window to see what had transpired, and they saw a fierce looking Ginny in a winter coat, hat, scarf, and snow boots, determinedly carrying a Clean Sweep 2.0 over her shoulder, and Dudley following with a pained look of concern on his face, wearing a big, shiny parka that conjured the image of Puff Daddy waving a Rolex in Harry’s mind like the Witch of Endor rising from a bowl.  
“Well…that was a bloody plot twist,” Harry said.  
“Ginny…likes a good fight. And she’s a very dominant personality. I suppose with Dudley’s mother, he’s used to that sort of thing. And, for all your aunt’s and uncle’s prejudice against it…I think he rather likes magic,” Hermione said.  
“He’s certainly in the thrall of about six different directions of rebellion,” Harry said. “I reckon Ginny was never really herself around me.”  
“She admired you too much,” Hermione said.  
“Suppose I’m glad her and Big D found each other,” Harry said, and they watched Ginny’s fiery red hair wave behind her as she flew over the frozen pond.  
“Too high, Gin!” Dudley shouted.  
Ginny laughed, delightedly ignoring him.


	27. Chapter 27

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry and Petunia talk about Lily; Molly explains herself to Harry and Hermione; another wizard shows interest in Hermione, and Hermione gets a meaningful lead about the Peverell symbol

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger Warning: There is a bit of a Christmas sermon from Father Bernard, at All Hallow's Church, but I don't reckon its too preachy. Bernard is a man of many hats: vicar, wizard, history buff, poetry lover...Anyway, I hope you enjoy the chapter!

Hermione stood at the mirror, using her wand to tastefully arrange small white Glastonbury thorn flowers and red holly berries into her hair. With the red dress she had worn to Bill’s and Fleur’s wedding, a red cardigan, and some dark tights and ballet flats borrowed from Hannah, Hermione thought she looked all set for the Twelfth Night service at All Hallows.  
“Wow,” Harry said appreciatively, walking into the room they had shared, lying in each other’s arms, every night since they arrived at Deerfield.  
Hermione smirked. “Harry! You’ve seen this dress before,” she pointed out.  
“I wasn’t looking close enough, then,” Harry said.  
Hermione felt warm and suddenly bashful. It was probably the first real compliment she had gotten from a boy about her appearance since Viktor, and she had to admit, she was so young and unused to being found attractive that she had hardly been able to thank him. The language barrier between them had actually made her more comfortable, because it gave her something to correct, to teach him. There was no crutch to lean in, no hiding from the molten warmth in Harry’s enchanting green eyes, and the way he was looking at her.  
“Harry,” she said, and reached for his hand. He held her gaze, and they shared a warm smile.  
“Get dressed for church. If you look in my bag, there’s your outfit from Bill’s and Fleur’s wedding, too, I know a few quick Charms that can press it,” she said.  
“Hermione, I’m not going. What Hannah said about there being a Potter in Godric’s Hollow, again…I don’t want to get people talking, have Voldemort know I’m here, and endanger the sanctuaries,” Harry said. “You and Ron and the rest can take Kreacher’s dinner up to the church, and don’t say who donated it, all right?”  
Hermione frowned with concern. “You deserve to enjoy what you’re doing for everyone else, you know!” she said indignantly.  
“I don’t know if I have high hopes for a punch called ‘lamb’s wool’,” Harry said.  
“Its actually supposed to be spicy, and quite nice. You see, in Tudor England there was a Christmas tradition called wassailing-” Hermione began, gripped by the need to expound information. Sometimes, she was so excited to share what she knew she could hardly help herself.  
“Hermione, I’m kidding,” Harry interrupted, but with a boyish smile and glint in his eye that she forgave every time, whether that was the right idea or not.  
She smiled, and said, “Well, Kreacher really knows his traditions, at any rate. I think its been a long time since he had a proper Yule season with a real wizard family.”  
“Is that what we are? A family?” Harry said.  
“Of course! Look, when I first saw Ron my hand rather twitched to smack him, too….but, then I was just so happy that he was alive, that he hadn’t splinched again and ignominiously bled to death somewhere, been captured by snatchers, or arrested by the so-called Ministry. So many bad things could happen to any one of us, at any time…and it just makes what family is more clear, and more precious,” Hermione said passionately.  
Harry kissed her. It was brief, but the familiarity of the gesture touched her heart-as if it was perfectly normal and right, and she should expect such gestures in abundance in future. Her chest and her stomach felt warm, as if there was pure sunshine running through her veins. She even felt a bit dizzy. This was so different from intellectual exertion, the intense focus of study. This was letting go, surrender to her emotions and the interplay of them and another’s, and she found it was palpable in the air between them, like the clashing currents of a storm over the ocean. It was, perhaps, a sort of magic.  
“Of course, you and Ron and I are family,” Harry said, but she heard an implicit ‘but’ at the end of his sentence.  
“The Dursleys,” Hermione sighed.  
“I thought that when I grew up, and finished Hogwarts, I’d never have to see them, anymore. That’s what going off to the Wizarding World meant: I didn’t have to live with them the whole year anymore,” Harry said.  
Hermione felt a leveling sadness in her belly, at the idea of an 11 year old boy volunteering wholesale to go to a boarding school miles away to get away from a family who despised and abused him. The things Harry had already endured accounted for the quiet but intense resilience that radiated in hot waves from his dark green eyes, his complete lack of fear in dangerous situations, but his patience and compassion with those outside of the norm, despised and forgotten. He had been forged by such misfortune into an uncommonly brave and kind man, and she loved and ached for him. Hermione put her hand to Harry’s face, looking deep into his eyes.  
“I can’t imagine what memories must return when you look at her. But, sometimes, we can’t pick who needs our help. All we can do is our best. And I know you’ll do your best, Harry,” Hermione said, and kissed him.  
This was longer, deeper, and she surrendered and moved with him as his arms came around her and he gathered her close to him. His lips abandoned her’s, and she felt a stab of outrage lance her stomach, sheer instinct demanding him to renew the kiss, until she felt his lips on her neck, instead. Just like in the boat, minutes before Morgana’s tsunami engulfed their house of dreams. This time, Hermione felt the wave crash within her.  
“Oh…” she sighed.  
Her legs became unsteady, and the edge of the bed seemed to rise behind her. The refuge of velvet covers embraced her, she lay back on it as if she was Venus, reclining on the foam of her immaculate birth. The velvet was so cool and soft, and Harry’s body over her’s was so warm…no, hot, everything about Harry was subtly hidden intensity, being near him was like taking a dare to fly towards the sun. He continued to kiss her neck, and Hermione’s hands did what they had longed to do for nearly a decade: she ran her hands through the messy locks of jet black hair, and with each sail of her fingertips, Harry moaned.  
“Hermione, dear, do you have a coat? You know we’re going to be walking all the way-” rang Molly Weasley’s voice of motherly concern.  
Hermione and Harry broke apart.  
“Mrs. Weasley!” Hermione exclaimed, straightening her clothes. Never one for scenes, Harry said nothing.  
Molly looked at them with maternal scrutiny, her hands on her hips. Hermione was mortified. How much had Ginny told her mother about she and Harry’s short-lived school romance? What would she think of Hermione taking up with her best friend’s ex? She had felt Mrs. Weasley’s wrath before, when Rita Skeeter’s putrid gossip column put out that she was two-timing Harry with Viktor. That had been another layer of confusion about pursuing what she felt for Viktor: was it worth it, if it made the matriarch of the only family who would invite a Muggleborn like her round for summer look at her like something stuck to the bottom of a shoe? Mrs. Weasley’s expression at the sight of Hermione when she came up to Hogwarts to visit Harry had levelled her. If she’d not been so used to slurs and dislike from her classmates, she would have cried on the spot. Her disapproval had evaporated when Harry said that Rita Skeeter was a liar, but Hermione had never forgotten it.  
“Mrs. Weasley, you must want an explanation of what you’ve seen. Surely, as Ginny’s mother, and Ron’s, you deserve one,” Hermione began graciously, and Harry looked at her with some surprise.  
“Hermione, dear, you needn’t explain anything. And neither do you, Harry,” she said. The apologetic look in her eye told Hermione that she remembered the Rita Skeeter incident of four years past quite well.  
“When Bill brought Fleur home, I wasn’t kind. I was just barely patient, but I wasn’t kind at all. Because she isn’t who I would have chosen. Every day, I’m confronted with things I wouldn’t have chosen. I wouldn’t have chosen this war, but its happening, and I have to be realistic, and be strong,” Molly said. “I know that Harry and Ginny had some kind of a…dalliance, at school. And, Hermione, I always thought that you and Ronny…but, never mind that. Never mind what I want. I’ve learned that I only make others feel bad, when I make what I want more important than who they really are, and how they feel. And, I’m sorry, if I’ve done that to you in the past.”  
“You have nothing to be sorry for, Mrs. Weasley! You’re…perfect!” Harry burst out.  
She chuckled bemusedly, and said, “No one and nothing is perfect, Harry.” She held out her arms, and they both hurried forth to hug her.  
“All right, now get your coats on,” she said.  
“Oh, I’m not going,” Harry said. “I can’t be seen too widely around.” With sad, loving resignation, Mrs. Weasley nodded, and left Harry and Hermione alone.  
Hermione had an idea, at his words. “Harry! You can’t be seen, but you could still come, under your cloak!”  
“We’ll see,” Harry said, and kissed her cheek.  
He was getting into a distant mood, which meant that he was thinking hard about something. Hermione sighed, and had faith that all she had to do was wait, and she would be the first person he told what was on his mind.

Hannah, Melinda, Remus, Ron, Dudley, Ginny, Hermione, and Mrs. Weasley walked up to All Hallows, carrying the foil wrapped Twelfth Night dinner Kreacher had prepared, which included a huge King Cake with several spices.  
Harry felt that he was being watched, and turned to see Aunt Petunia timidly watching him from the eaves of the drawing room door. When he saw that it was her, Harry figured that she was watching the departing party walking down the snowy lane to the village, in awe that wizards went to church. He turned back to the sight of them-Hermione’s curly hair bouncing around her shoulders from beneath her chenille wool hat, Ron’s, Molly’s and Ginny’s copper red heads…the people he loved, walking confidently, in loving togetherness, on the last day of Christmas.  
“Harry…” Petunia said, in a timid voice with which she had never addressed him, before. She usually spat his name ill-temperedly, or hollered it from across the house.  
“What?” Harry said impatiently, and was surprised to see her flinch. ‘Great, we’re back to that,’ Harry thought, remembering how the Dursleys had pointedly ignored him, this time with a new note of fear and trepidation, in the days before his first journey on the Hogwarts Express.  
Petunia seemed to be visibly gathering her courage up to ask, “You said that I hated you…and her. Do you think she thought so? Before she…”  
“Died?” Harry said. “how should I know? I don’t know anything about her.”  
She clearly didn’t expect this answer, and looked crestfallen in a way that Harry had never seen before either. Harry felt a niggling obligation to say or do something kind…like when Hagrid asked him for help with a dangerous creature, or Dobby had that bad habit of hitting himself in punishment for speaking against the Malfoys and Harry had to entreat him to stop.  
What would Hermione say? She was so wise about people, and their emotions. It was, wrong or right, simpler for Harry: he liked them, or he didn’t, and he no longer hated Petunia as intensely as when he had to live with her every day out of the year, but having her around was a reminder of dusty cupboards and urine stained sheets, Dudley’s punches and all the things he had thought belonged to another life that had ended the first time he held his holly wand, or flew on a broom in Madam Hooch’s class, played a Quidditch match, got a good mark in Defense Against the Dark Arts…Harry knew who he was, and who he wanted to be, and it didn’t include being an unloved and unwanted orphan who rarely got anything sweet, any patience, and kindness, any mercy.  
Petunia didn’t love him-and he wasn’t sure why she expected him to even pity her. Could not their loathing just remain mutual, as it had all his life?  
“What do you want to know?” Petunia asked.  
“Its too late for that,” Harry said. “and I don’t think you knew anything about her, either.”  
“She was my sister!” Petunia said, mustering some outrage.  
“And you wanted to be her, didn’t you? You wanted her life. Well, this is her life. Fighting, when you have to; running and hiding, when you can. Magic wasn’t some toy she got for her birthday, that you should have gotten. It was part of who she was, and she didn’t choose it, it just happened. And you couldn’t lock her in any cupboards or starve her, for it, but you punished her in a different way. Did you call her a freak, to her face?” Harry said.  
“Yes,” Petunia admitted, and she was crying. Harry was shocked. Petunia was always so pointedly immaculate. “I…called her names. And…I…I didn’t go to her wedding. Or come to her house. I…I don’t know why. I don’t know why I acted the way I did, and was angry for so long! And…she’s…”  
“Dead,” Harry said.  
She cried harder. Harry hoped that she didn’t want to he held. He didn’t feel that sorry for her. At least…he didn’t want to. But, the longer and harder she cried, it was clear that Petunia was only just beginning to grasp that her sister was never coming back home. Never again, would the Hogwarts Express pull into King’s Cross carrying Lily Evans on it, perhaps walking with jaunty satisfaction off the train, answering her proud parents questions happily about all she had accomplished at school that year. How those car rides, with her sister the center of attention and her parents visibly proud of her, must have rankled Petunia, who wanted all of the adulation and praise, reassurance that she was beautiful, accomplished, and loved, for herself. Her own insecurities, and the fear they had engendered, had fueled her anger at Lily, and she had not let it go until this moment.  
“You’re just like him,” Harry said.  
Petunia looked up. “Who?” she asked.  
“Snape,” Harry answered.  
Petunia looked offended, and snapped, “Don’t compare me to that little creep!”  
“He’s still in love with her, and you still…feel whatever it is you feel about her,” Harry said. “She’s gone. And you both wasted your time when she was alive, wanting things that weren’t going to happen.”  
“And you never got to love her, at all,” Petunia said, in a small, apologetic voice. “I threw away my chance…and you never got one. She was…lovely, Lily. She was. But, she loved all the wrong people.”  
“Who’re the wrong people? Someone’s got to be perfect for you to love them?” Harry said.  
Petunia looked at him, as if trying to see through him.  
“Your eyes…they’re just like her’s. When you look at me, I feel like she can see me. And I can’t stand it,” Petunia said. “Its like…she’s here. I last saw her at our parents’ funeral. I blamed her, and I told her so. I told her that…I hate her. Do you think she believes it?”  
“I don’t know. And I can’t tell you that,” Harry said. “But, you knew her, I didn’t. I think…that my mother was the sort of person who gave people second chances. I think she gave you, and Snape, and my dad, and Sirius, a lot of chances to be better people.”  
“What did you mean…that he betrayed her? How?” Petunia asked.  
“There was a prophecy. A Seer told it to Dumbledore. Voldemort sent Snape to eavesdrop, and he delivered him the prophecy, saying a boy born at the end of July would be his downfall. Voldemort decided it meant me,” Harry said. He added, “Snape didn’t know until later, that Voldemort was going to kill my mum. He asked him to spare her…and, he was going to. But, when he cast the curse at me, my mum jumped in front of me, saved my life.”  
“She loved you,” Petunia said, as if realizing that for the first time, too. Or, realizing that she had never shown him love.  
“Last year…Dumbledore showed me all the memories he had collected about Voldemort. Memories he had of him, when he was a boy, and other people’s memories. I didn’t understand it, before, why he thought that would help me defeat him. But, I understand it, now,” Harry said. “He needed me to see Voldemort. To really see him. That we weren’t all that different, only the choices we make are. When you hate someone, they aren’t real to you. You can’t imagine what life is like for them. They don’t seem as important, or as human, as you. My mum, her life, you never really imagined it, before-you were too angry at her. It wasn’t her being a wizard that made her different-it was you. You, hating her too much to see her. And, it was the same with me. Do you see us now?”  
Petunia looked directly into his eyes, and silently wept. “Yes,” whispered. “I see you, Harry. And, I’m sorry. But it all would have been different, if she had listened to me, about him…”  
“I don’t know if it would be,” Harry said. “there would still be Voldemort. Snape is just a pawn.”  
Harry sighed, and said, “Do you want to go up to the church?”  
“I just want to lie down,” Petunia said, and left the room, presumably to do so.  
Harry waited a while, digesting the conversation they had just had, and when he felt ready, he slipped on his cloak and began walking to Godric’s Hollow. 

Hannah’s Uncle Bernard wasn’t what Hermione had expected or imagined when she heard the title, ‘vicar’. Standing at the pulpit of the small, simple church of All Hallows, Bernard was a tall, athletically lithe man in his early 30s, at the most, whose well defined and handsome, rosy face perfectly suited his coppery strawberry blonde hair. His gray-blue eyes regarded his parishioners in a careful, languid sweep as if he was looking into each of their eyes in turn, connecting with them.  
“The Magi, we can well imagine, did not have an easy go of it, in their quest to follow the Star, and find the King,” Bernard said, his voice assured and engaging, steady and arresting. “The poet, T.S. Eliot wrote-and, I paraphrase-that they’d seen a birth that was their death, and could not return, afterwards, to the old dispensations.  
My friends, Christmas is no ordinary time, because it opens our hearts. When your heart has been changed, for the better, it will not serve you to go back, to how you were before, to cling to what’s familiar, even if it is not profitable. When Christmas ends, we take down the decorations, we clean up after the parties, and so often we close our hearts and don’t continue to let the joy and peace of an open heart continue to transform us.”  
There as a murmur of assent, there, and Bernard paused, before continuing, “Keep giving your heart. The Magi were not the Holy Family’s only visitors, that night. Remember the poor little shepherd boy, who had nothing to give but his heart. Give every single day your heart, not just one day, and not just twelve.”  
Again, the congregation murmured their agreement. Bernard took a respectful pause. He was palpably serene, and perhaps it was the light of the licking flames upon the candles, in the copper candelabras casting on his healthy, handsome face, and red gold hair, but he seemed to emit benevolence like a subtle heat.  
Bernard led the congregation in prayer. Hermione closed her eyes, as everyone else present did, but she felt slightly out of her depth. Her parents were neither religious nor irreligious. They valued other things: West End shows, Merchant-Ivory films, Booker prize winning novels, and to them a cathedral like Westminster Abbey would be first a historical site, not immediately a place to pray. Hermione was not quite sure what prayer was. It was not like the instant response of magic, to be sure: when she said the words, some force leapt from her, through her wand, and her intentions became manifest. She had learned in her travels with Harry that much life was housed in the supposed emptiness of the Ether. Was prayer the fervent wishes and the inner canticles of despair uttered between the heart and the void?  
She felt a nudge at her shoulder, and looked over to see that it was Ginny.  
“Its over, he said amen,” Ginny said impatiently.  
“Thank God-we can eat now!” Dudley said.  
Ginny rolled her eyes.  
“What?” Dudley said, with playful indignance. “Gotta keep my protein high-and you don’t get to be a heavyweight living off finger sandwiches.” To punctuate his point, Dudley punched and jabbed at the air.  
“I’ll bet,” Ginny said, palpably unamused. “Try not to choke on the crown in the King cake, yeah?”  
“You reckon I’ll get the lucky piece? And be king for the day?” he said.  
“Merlin help us all,” Ginny said, and rolled her eyes.  
Hermione laughed at their banter. It was as if they’d known each other for ages. Dudley liked Ginny’s snarky sense of humor, and she seemed to like how well he could take her sarcasm. Free from the pressure that she had imposed on herself by loving the “Chosen One” for most of her life, and the pressure Harry had inadvertently caused by placing her and her family on a pedestal, Ginny was free to be herself unapologetically.  
“Come on, let’s tuck into that ham. Kreacher glazed it to perfection,” Ginny said.  
“Oh, that’s all right, I was going to go out to the cemetery, and get one last look at that Peverell symbol,” Hermione said.  
“Peverell, did you say?” said a voice behind her.  
Hermione turned around. Bernard had left the pulpit, and was mingling amongst the parishioners, and had ended up facing Ginny, Dudley, and Harry.  
“Old Godric’s Hollow name, that. Are you doing a bit of genealogy?” he asked cheerfully.  
He was a bit overpoweringly handsome, up close. Hermione found she did better when she could focus on a bit of charming imperfection in a bloke’s features: Ron’s slightly large nose, Harry’s glasses and pinched, underfed look, Viktors encroaching unibrow. But Bernard was….quite shiny. Almost reminiscent of Gilderoy Lockhart, whose books she had binged over the summer between 1st and second year-and turned out to be an utter fraud. But, Bernard’s aura of good intentions made it worth powering through his gobsmacking handsomeness to make an effort to talk to him.  
“I…do enjoy history, yes,” Hermione said.  
“Father Abbot, this is my friend…” Ginny began, searching for a false name. Showing her face was not quite as dangerous for her as for Harry, but when anyone heard the name ‘Hermione Granger,’ they’d instantly connect her with Harry, ‘Undesirable Number 1’.  
“Belinda,” Hermione supplied, thinking of the heroine of Alexander Pope’s “The Rape of the Lock”, and while she was at it decided to give the poet’s name as a surname. “Pope. Belinda Pope,” she said.  
“Ah. Well, Ms. Pope, the Peverells were natives of this village, lived about…hmm…the 15th century. It was an exciting time to be English, the reign of Edward the Fourth. He was a man of great enterprise and vision. He wanted England to be an elegant, innovative, relevant nation. The arts and sciences flourished under him: Caxton, the printer, Chaucer and Mallory, the authors-you can thank Edward the Fourth for them. And, as for wizardry-well, not only did he marry a witch, but her brother-” Bernard began.  
“Was an alchemist!” Hermione interrupted. “Anthony Woodville! The first book Caxton printed was his, a book of utterances by learned Arabic alchemists that Woodville had collected in his travels!”  
Bernard laughed delightedly. “Yes! Well, Ms. Pope, you do know your stuff. Then you must have alighted already upon the fact that the Peverell brothers were colleagues of his, Woodville’s. Yes, Alchemists, all of them,” he said.  
“Er, yes, of course, I had an inkling,” Hermione said, but didn’t elaborate on the nature or reason for her guesswork. “Father, have you ever seen this symbol, before, in connection to the Peverells, and have you any idea what it means?”  
She took out her copy of The Tales of Beadle the Bard, and showed him the symbol.  
Bernard studied it, and frowned, and said, “Hmm. You do see that symbol, up and down, round here. Bit of a mystery. Rather like the Sheela-na-gig, you know.”  
“Sheila who?” Ginny asked.  
Bernard laughed benignly, and said, “Its an ancient fertility symbol, presumably, but no one knows its origin, and you find inscriptions of it all throughout Britain.”  
“Hannah led me to believe that this symbol, though, is connected quite specifically with the Peverells,” Hermione said.  
“Ms. Pope…I won’t ask your real name, but I must ask just what the nature of this historical inquiry is,” Bernard said.  
Well, there went any hope of not being recognized as Hermione Granger, infamous Muggleborn companion of Harry Potter, she thought.  
“A good cause,” Hermione said.  
“I don’t know the nature of that symbol, but perhaps Professor Babbling does,” he said. “Come upstairs with me.”  
“Professor Babbling?!” Hermione said.  
“Who’s that? I never had a Professor Babbling at Hogwarts,” Ginny said.  
“You never took Ancient Runes,” Hermione said.  
“And you did, Belinda?” Bernard said, with a playful tone. He wasn’t buying her false name, for a minute, but he was playing along. “Then you must have wanted to move on to N.E.W.T Alchemy. She still teaches both, doesn’t she?”  
“I actually didn’t want to take Alchemy. I think its one of the more dangerous magical arts,” Hermione said.  
“We’d have no chemistry without it. In fact, the Arabic word Al-Chimia is the origin of both the words Alchemy and Chemistry. Sir Isaac Newton was an Alchemist,” Bernard said.  
“Bully for him,” Hermione snapped. Harry had nearly been killed because Voldemort was pursuing eternal life. She was of the opinion that alchemy was vainglorious.  
Bernard laughed brightly.  
“Well, its not for everyone, but I found my studies of it at Percival quite rewarding,” he said.  
Ginny snorted her laughter sardonically, and Hermione blushed a bit.  
“It…has its merits, to be sure. I mean, look at Dumbledore’s findings on the uses of dragon’s blood, for instance,” she said, apologetically.  
“Indeed, Ms. Pope,” Bernard said, bemusedly. “Well, Professor Babbling has been resting up here since leaving Hogwarts-Professor Snape didn’t approve of her subject, either.”  
“But of course-science and despotism don’t usually mix well,” Hermione said.  
Bernard regarded her with respect, and nodded, as he said, “Yes, quite. If anyone can tell you what the Peverell symbol means, it’ll be her. I’ll go announce you, first; she was rather…distressed, when she first came to us, and she rests for much of the day. But, I’m sure she has time for a former student…Ms. Pope.”  
“Thank you, Father Abbot,” Hermione said heartily. He was sure that he was going to announce her as ‘Hermione Granger’, but she also trusted that he would not tell anyone who didn’t need to know her real identity. Father Abbot left them, and when he was out of earshot, Ginny said,  
“Best looking one you’ve pulled, yet. Viktor Krum…well, everyone knows those retired Quidditch players let themselves go once they haven’t got ‘The Game’ to live for. Cormac McClaggen-fit, but an irredeemable tosser. And my brother can’t keep up with you, and its a mercy you both realized it. Yeah, best one yet.”  
“He’s not all that,” Dudley said, and Ginny looked at him incredulously.  
“Compared to who, Michelangelo’s bloody David?” she said. “Every year, some poor sod falls in love with Hermione, and she doesn’t notice it.”  
“That’s not true, and even if it was, what’s that got to do with Father Abbot! He’s…a vicar!” she sputtered.  
“So? He’s not a eunuch!” Ginny said. “and he’s into you.”  
“Oh, as if!” Hermione said.  
“Oy, what about my cousin?” Dudley said. “aren’t you an item?”  
“Both of you, is this really the time? Father Abbot is not interested in me!” Hermione insisted…just as Father Abbot returned to them, jogging a bit.  
He smirked questioningly. Okay, he looked a bit like a blonde Hugh Grant when he did that…but, she had bigger concerns.  
“I assure you, Ms. Pope, anyone who knows who Anthony Woodville is, is someone I find interesting, indeed,” he said.  
“Well, anyone who quotes T.S. Eliot and Christina Rossetti in one speech is quite interesting, themselves,” she returned.  
“Sermon, Hermione. When a vicar talks, its called a sermon,” Ginny corrected.  
Bernard said, “You recognized my allusions?”  
“Of course! Eliot’s “The Journey of the Magi”, and the song, “In the Bleak Midwinter”. It was a poem, Christina Rossetti wrote, put to song: ‘If I were a wise man, I’d do my part/ what can I give him?/I give him my heart,’” she quoted.  
Bernard looked moved, and said, “Sometimes, its all you can do. You know, Ms. Pope, I actually attended a Catholic seminary, not an Anglican one…and I read about the Carmelite saint, St. Therese of Lisieux. The Little Flower, they called her. A sweet young woman, about your age. She wrote a book, called ‘The Little Way’. It was her philosophy, you see, that kindness, and small acts of benevolence, were just as important as grand, heroic acts. I think we, in Godric’s Hollow, chose the Little Way, long ago. To welcome the stranger, shelter the traveler, embrace the refugee.”  
Hermione found that very moving, indeed.  
“Wait, so you were going to be like, a priest? The kind that can never have sex?” Dudley spluttered.  
“No, the kind that dances naked at Stone Henge. Yes, you idiot! Very classy, Dursley,” Ginny said.  
“Oh, don’t get your brothers to call up Joe Pesci, or something,” Dudley said.  
“Who?” Ginny said.  
“Can you believe she’s never seen ‘Casino’?” Dudley said.  
“Basement! Now! Before you say something else thick,” Ginny said, and Dudley began explaining the plot of ‘Casino’ as they walked downstairs.  
“I rather think he’s muddled it with ‘Goodfellas’,” Bernard said.  
“I wouldn’t wonder,” Hermione said. Her gangster movie acumen was a bit shaky, so she couldn’t be sure.  
“The Professor isn’t well. But, perhaps you and Mr. Potter could come round and speak to her tomorrow?” Bernard said.  
Hermione’s eyes widened. Bernard had already guessed who she was.  
“You…won’t tell anyone my real name, will you?” Hermione said.  
“We never betray anyone who passes through here…Ms. Pope,” Bernard said.  
“Thank you,” she said. Something called her to go outside. On the surface, she thought it was the glimpse of falling snow she could just spy through the pelican window. “If you’ll excuse me,” she told Bernard.  
Hermione stepped outside the church. She now had the recall to find the Potters’ graves, and the snowy white marble of them stood out. It saddened her afresh, that Harry didn’t have his parents. She had a sudden yearning to meet them. Would James Potter, the Quidditch hero and mischievous co-conspirator of the Marauders Map, have preferred sporty, brash Ginny for a potential daughter-in-law? Would Lily Potter and she have talked for hours of the unique challenges they faced as Muggleborns, or simply understood it all at a glance? Hermione knew, realistically, that just as Muggles tended to pair off after university, wizards seemed to find their life partners at Hogwarts…in another life, maybe her first time in Godric’s Hollow would be as Harry’s fiancée.  
When she reached Lily’s and James’s graves, she saw the Glastonbury thorn blossoms she herself had conjured and left there…and a pair of footsteps. She gasped as Harry threw the invisibility cloak over her, too. Moonlight shone through the cloak, and danced in Harry’s green eyes, which were now staring into her’s.  
“The vicar’s keen on you…and that was a singularly weird sentence to find myself saying,” He said.  
“Harry, I love you-but stuff it,” Hermione said.  
“Come on, ‘Mione! I saw his body language, and he was into you,” he said.  
“Well, maybe you shouldn’t peer through church windows like a ghost,” she said.  
“Not a ghost, the Invisible Man,” Harry said.  
Hermione laughed. “Yes, good point,” she said, and kissed him.  
Even beneath the cloak, the cold reached them and turned their breath to mist as they broke apart to breathe. They held hands, and began to walk.  
“Where are we going?” Hermione asked.  
“I want to see a bit of Godric’s Hollow. Sorry about how I reacted, before, when you brought up doing that,” Harry said.  
“Harry, you apologize far too much. I told you, I know you. You’re that same sweet, quiet little boy who included me in his secret mission to keep the Philosopher’s Stone safe, in first year. I know that everything’s been different…since Voldemort came back. The things you’ve seen…they hurt,” Hermione said. “that’s why you shut down, or blow up. Harry, I know its not you, it’s the pain.”  
He squeezed her hand, incapable of adequate words, as they walked invisibly down the moon lit lanes of Godric’s Hollow. 


	28. Chapter 28

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry and Ginny disagree about Snape; Harry and Hermione make plans for the future

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enjoy the new chapter!

The next morning, Harry opened Sirius’s letter, which filled him in on his efforts to bring round a coven of Druids he had known in Ireland as a young man, before Azkaban, round to the Order of the Phoenix. Enclosed was a birch wand that the Druids had made for Harry. Harry held it, and cast some easy Charms with it, smiling as he once again felt magic flow through him, channeled through a wand. He smiled, and then sat at the library desk to write a thank you letter to Sirius. It felt good, to be writing to him, again. He decided that Tonks’s news was best imparted by herself, or Lupin.  
Harry thought with sadness of Hedwig. This was the first letter to Sirius that she would not be alive to post for him. His beautiful owl, with her golden brown eyes, his only link to the Wizarding World and only companion during lonely, deprived summers with the Dursleys…He shook off the sadness, and went to track down Ron, to ask him to use Pigwidgeon. He found Ron and Hannah in a drawing room, talking with familiarity.  
“You’re sure its no trouble?” she said.  
“Nah, ‘course not. Just ask, and I’m on it,” he said.  
“Ron, I couldn’t do any of this without you, you do know that, don’t you?” Hannah said.  
Ron blushed. Harry cleared his throat.  
“Harry, g’morning,” Hannah said brightly. “Ron’s off to the village, to grab some things for your aunt, if you want to go along.”  
“What does she want? No one here has to go out of their way to pamper her. Whatever she wants, she shouldn’t have asked you,” Harry said.  
“Its all right, mate. Just, you know, those magazines that recap soap operas, and some pyjamas, and slippers-she doesn’t want to remodel the kitchen. Well, come to that, if she did she’d have to answer to my mum, and Kreacher. Can you imagine?” Ron said.  
Harry and Hannah laughed.  
“My money would be on Mrs. Weasley,” Hannah said.  
“Syngin’s quite right-you’ve got a little gambling problem, haven’t you?” Ron said.  
“Oh, go on, Ron Weasley!” Hannah laughed him off, with a friendly slap of his arm. Ron looked at Hannah and smiled warmly.  
Harry hesitated to interrupt their reverie, and asked, “Oy, Ron, can I use your owl?”  
“Yeah, sure. Pig’s in the cage in Ginny’s room,” Ron said, and led the way there.  
“So…” Harry began.  
“So, what?” Ron said.  
“Hannah?” Harry asked.  
“What about her?” Ron said.  
“You two had a moment, back there. Or, was I imagining that?” Harry said.  
“What kind of moment? Come on, you know Hannah. She’s…a happy person, a sweet girl,” Ron said.  
“She’s sweet, yeah, but between you and me she’s usually a ball of nerves,” Harry said. “She was so at ease with you.”  
And, their reconciliation being so recent and fresh, Harry held back adding that Ron, too, usually tried way too hard to impress people whose approval he wanted: authority figures, his brothers, girls. That was one of the few instances, talking to Hannah, Harry could recall when he struck just the right note, and didn’t seem either cloying or frustrated with himself, or unintentionally rude.  
“Hannah’s good to everyone around here. I think taking care of others takes her mind off her mum, you know? I can’t imagine it, what she’s feeling, what she’s been going through since she left school,” Ron said. “I didn’t understand, before.”  
“Understand what?” Harry said.  
“That this is war. And, about your parents…” Ron began.  
“Look, Ron, I appreciate this, but I think if one more person apologizes to me or brings up my parents, I’m going to tear my hair out,” Harry said, thinking of Petunia.  
Ron nodded, understanding, and said, “All right. Then, let’s talk about our next move, instead.”  
“The Horcruxes,” Harry said.  
“Of course!” Ron said.  
“Three to go,” Harry said. “The snake, the cup, and something of Ravenclaw’s. But, what of Ravenclaw’s, exactly?”  
“And no leads on the cup,” Ron said.  
“And, nothing to kill the Horcruxes with,” Harry said.  
“What do you mean?” Ron asked.  
“The venom, for Ginny’s antidote came from the tip of the dagger that Morgana gave Sirius. We’ve got nothing to neutralize the objects that Voldemort has..Horcruxed?” Harry said.  
“Horcruxed?” Ron said, skeptically. “Is that a word?”  
“Its either that or Horcrucify, take your pick,” Harry said.  
They laughed, and Harry felt like they were two cheeky thirteen-year-olds stringing together the worst prophecies in Trelawney’s overpoweringly nag champa scented classroom again. They entered Ginny’s room, where Hermione was sitting on her bed.  
“Oy! Can you feckin’ knock?” Ginny said ill-temperedly.  
“We need to use Pig,” Harry said.  
“Oh. Yeah, sure,” she said, and unlocked the cage. The jittery little owl saw the letter in Harry’s hand, and shook with what Harry imagined was anticipation as he accepted the letter in his beak. Harry opened the window, and said,  
“Do your thing, Pig.”  
He watched as the little owl flew away.  
Harry sat beside Hermione, and she easily leaned into him, a habit grown from sharing warmth in the tent in the Forest of Dean. If Ginny and Ron felt slighted by this, neither let it show, but Harry felt pretty confident that they were beyond all the romantic messiness between them. They were friends, family, allies, bonds forged when there was no one else to turn to, and the stakes couldn’t have been higher.  
“How long will you lot be in Godric’s Hollow?” Ginny asked. “Mum wants me to come back to Cornwall with her and Aunt Muriel, close to Bill and Fleur. But, if you’re staying here, I don’t want to go.”  
“Actually…Mione and I discussed going back into Hogwarts, to get the sword. It’s the only thing that can neutralize the Horcruxes, now we’ve lost the dagger,” Harry said.  
“Because of me,” Ginny said.  
Hermione squeezed her hand, and said, “Ginny, we regret nothing, all right?” Her tone was firm.  
“How are you going to get in? Apparate?” Ron asked. “then what?”  
“You cannot. Apparate. Or Disapparate. On the Hogwarts Grounds!” Hermione said, for the umpteenth time.  
“Yeah, I know. Just remembered, soon as you said it. A few seconds before,” Ron said.  
“I keep meaning to read ‘Hogwarts, a History’. Really!” Harry said.  
Hermione rolled her eyes, and Ginny laughed insouciantly.  
“Ginny, you were at Hogwarts this year; is there any way in?” Harry asked.  
“Not with the Carrows in charge,” she said.  
“And are they, then?” Harry pressed.  
She sighed. “Before I left for hols, Severus was as intent as ever to find you and Ron and Hermione, and using more and more moly. He was a bloody wreck…I begged him to come with me.”  
Hermione gasped. Ron sputtered, “You…what? Asked Dumbledore’s murderer over for Christmas?!”  
Ginny glared at Ron. “You don’t understand! He thought I was Lily…his best friend. He would have done anything for me. And he was so weak, so ill. He got stroppy, said I was losing faith in him, but that didn’t matter, he still wouldn’t fail me…that he wasn’t afraid to die protecting you. He’s living in a world of his own, where Lily is alive but he still has to protect you, for her, Harry.”  
Harry stared stonily at her, becoming increasingly angry, wondering what he was meant to do with this information, and just how Ginny expected him to believe her stranger stories about Snape over his own eyes. He had witnessed Snape murder Dumbledore after the headmaster, weakened and frail from drinking the potion, had begged for his life.  
“Look, Harry, I know he hated your father…” Ginny began.  
“You don’t know anything about that,” Harry snapped at her.  
Ron’s and Hermione’s eyes widened. Ginny’s bull-in-a-china-shop confidence faltered in momentum, and she took a few steadying blinks. 

Hermione didn’t have the widest experience with relationships-whatever she had with Viktor had spanned one ball and a few letters-but she had spent six years at boarding school rooming with four other girls who whinged constantly about boys and relationships, so she had an idea what Ginny was experiencing. She had gotten used to having Harry’s ear, and being his final word when it came to advice. From the moment she had defended him when he used Sectumsempra on Draco Malfoy, her opinion had become the one he turned to. She had forgotten, or never known what it was like to be Harry’s friend: the way he used his cutting sarcasm as a cudgel when someone brought up an uncomfortable subject, or defended a stance he didn’t agree with, the way all his sharp, pointed beauty and the light in his brilliant green eyes could become overheated and intense when he was angry, and one wondered afresh what rare powers and magical gifts lived within him, just how he had survived Voldemort, and all the other horrors that had been thrown in his path. Harry was a bright star, and stars burn. Ginny had never opposed him, so she had never known that heat.  
Ginny glared at him coldly, and said, frostily, “I know all about your father, and if you still think he was some hero, you’ve got the wrong idea. Maybe we wouldn’t be in this mess if him and his gang hadn’t tortured Severus just for being a Slytherin.”  
“Come off it, Gin! Sirius told us once that Snape knew plenty of dark magic, even when he was just a first year, and he never wasted a chance to use it. And he was friends with a bunch of people who went on to be Death Eaters: Mulciber, Avery, Bellatrix LeStrange and that husband of her’s. They’re bloody terrorists, and always have been. What are you doing?” Ron said.  
“That’s his version of things! You don’t know the real story! If you knew the things Severus had been through, even before Hogwarts!” Ginny said.  
“Boo-hoo. Cry me a bloody river. I’d been through plenty before Hogwarts, and look at that: I still haven’t murdered anyone,” Harry sniped.  
“Well, you’re going to, aren’t you? You have to do it. You have to be the one to kill Voldemort,” Ginny argued.  
“That’s different, Ginny,” Hermione said mildly.  
“What’s gotten into you?” Harry asked.  
“Harry, Severus didn’t murder Dumbledore. He would never! Dumbledore was cursed by a Horcrux, like I was, and he was dying! He found out that Draco had been tasked to kill him-probably so he’d die in the process, to punish Lucius Malfoy for cocking up the way he did at the Department of Mysteries,” Ginny said. “Dumbledore didn’t want his death on Draco’s conscience, and he knew that he couldn’t hold on much longer. He ordered Severus to do it, when the time came, so Draco wouldn’t have to. Don’t you see? He didn’t have a choice, and it was for the best, just like when you have to face Voldemort. It will be to save us all, the way Severus saved Draco, and in a way, Dumbledore, too…from any more suffering.”  
“Ginny, I can tell that you believe this. But, Snape would have said anything, if he thought you were my mum, wouldn’t he? He gave you the version he would have given her. He must have made all sorts of excuses and told all sorts of half truths, to keep her on his side, until she didn’t buy it, anymore,” Harry said.  
“Yeah, he must’ve done something awful. And your mum was a Prefect, wasn’t she? She must have caught him in it,” Ron said.  
Harry made eye contact and nodded. That was a likely explanation.  
“Then maybe she could have been a little more understanding, and forgiving!” Ginny said heatedly.  
Harry was about to speak, but Hermione doubted it would be kind. She put her hand on Harry’s wrist, met his eyes, and nodded towards the corridor. They stepped outside Ginny’s room.  
“Has she gone mad?” Harry hissed.  
“Harry, I need you to listen to me. Ginny is my best friend. I know her. I know she trod on some very sensitive territory, back there, but I need you to calm down and hear me out. Please?” Hermione asked.  
Harry took some fortifying deep breaths, and said, “Yeah, all right. But if she says one more time that Dumbledore wanted to die….”  
“I know, I know,” Hermione said. “Look, a few things are happening here. For one, I think Ginny truly believes this version of events surrounding Dumbledore’s death.”  
“Do you?” Harry said.  
“I think anyone who was at Hogwarts last year could clearly see that he was maimed and ailing, and he told you himself that it was to do with the Gaunt family ring, and the curse placed upon it. Also, he gave Snape the Defense Against the Dark Arts position,” Hermione said.  
“Because he trusted him-wrongly,” Harry countered.  
“What if…his newfound confidence in Snape came from whatever secret he knew to stave off the effects of the curse?” Hermione said. Harry rolled his eyes and huffed, but Hermione widened her eyes in appeal and held up her hand for patience. “Listen,” she continued firmly. “Imagine: you’re Dumbledore. A former member of the Wizengamot, an Alchemist, a Hogwarts professor and Headmaster. People have turned to you for help for nearly a century, and your magic can solve most of their problems and your’s.”  
That, Harry had imagined many times. Of all the men who had stepped up to try to play a surrogate father role: kindly and practical Lupin, enigmatic and slightly dangerous, but well-meaning and loyal Sirius, rough and rugged but tender Hagrid, and eccentric, lovable Mr. Weasley, it was Dumbledore whom Harry had admired most, because in his heart of hearts he saw him as the embodiment of all magic should be, all Harry had hoped it would be: powerful, steady, majestic, and able to fix anything.  
“Until him,” Hermione said. “Until Tom Riddle grew up, and became Lord Voldemort, a singular creation of the rarest and darkest magic, magic that baffles you, and now that magic has cursed you. For the first time in nearly a century, for the first time ever, maybe, you don’t know what to do. But, Snape does. Snape had the knowledge and skill to stop the curse that was killing Dumbledore and…well, when people trust a physician, they can become too reliant and even dependent on them. Like celebrities and their private doctors who are always willing to bend the law and fudge the truth to get them what they need. But, the patient feels so grateful, they relax their defenses a bit around the doctor, and maybe…bends some rules for them, too. It’s a relationship of reciprocity.”  
“So…Dumbledore became more and more grateful to Snape, and more and more trusting of him, even more than before?” Harry said.  
Hermione nodded, feeling relieved that he understood.  
Harry sighed. “So, when the moment came, and Draco was going to kill him…”  
“Consider, that maybe that was why he said, ‘Severus, please.’. Maybe he was begging him to do it, rather than not to do it. When I hold your story and Ginny’s up next to each other, that’s the only version that will satisfy both,” Hermione said.  
Harry paused, folding his lips in thought, his eyes impenetrable.  
“Has anyone ever told you that you’d make one Hell of an Auror?” Harry asked.  
Hermione laughed, and said, “Curiously enough, a Death Eater in disguise as one.”  
“That was a funny year,” Harry said bleakly.  
“By funny, I hope you mean terrifying,” Hermione said.  
“I should have asked you to the Yule Ball, shouldn’t I have?” Harry said.  
“Well…I’m rather glad you didn’t. We would have been on the cover of ‘Witch Weekly’ or something,” Hermione said, and they both grimaced at the memory of, for a time, being the Wizarding World’s answer to Posh and Becks. They met each other’s eyes, and laughed. Together, they walked back into Ginny’s room. She and Ron, in a heated conversation of their own, barely noticed them.  
“No more rubbish about his parents, all right? Its like Snape brainwashed you, made you think you are Lily Potter!” Ron said.  
“I know who I am!” Ginny snapped roughly. “But if I was Lily Potter, I never would have-”  
Ron shook his head, and Ginny looked at the door.  
“What? Go on. If you were my mum, you never would’ve what? Given up on Snape?” Harry asked.  
Ginny said nothing.  
“Look, I believe the things he told me. And…I think that it makes a difference. He’s not a murderer,” Ginny said.  
“He’s also not my problem,” Harry said coldly.  
She glared heatedly at him, her amber eyes shining with a hard, uncompromising look, that reminded Hermione of the way Mrs. Weasley looked at the twins when she really meant business.  
“Can we move on? Tell me about the Carrows, and how they run things,” Harry said.  
“I did terrible things, too. I could have killed Hermione, and Colin, and Penelope…I felt horrible, and everyone treated me like a monster, like I had a monster inside me, like I wasn’t myself, anymore, I was…him. Voldemort,” Ginny said. “and you know what that’s like, Harry. To be singled out, and left out, and to know that people are afraid of you, and hate you because they’re afraid. I always thought that was what we had in common.”  
“Funny, I thought it was Quidditch,” Harry said frostily.  
Ginny gave him another fierce glare, and added sarcastically, “Oh, is that why you suddenly decided to stick your tongue down my throat, after years of ignoring me? Quidditch? I thought maybe you were dead set on not starting seventh year a virgin.”  
Ron looked mortified.  
“I didn’t use you, Ginny. You can think that, if you like, but its not how I see things, or how I meant things,” Harry said. “and that’s not why you’re upset. Snape’s fed you a cock and bull story about him being beat up by my dad and forced to spy for Dumbledore, and his love for my mum is keeping him alive. Its shit, Gin.”  
“It is not!” she said fiercely, as fiercely as she once defended him.  
“And what’s more, you reckon you could have done a better job of it, than my mum. Stayed by his side, soothed his fevered brow, kept him on the side of the angels,” Harry said derisively. “You had to be her, and you feel like if you really had been in my mum’s shoes, you would have fixed it all.”  
“Its different, when someone respects your opinion, and lets you in, and tells you what’s on their mind. I’ve been trying to learn who you are by watching you since I was 11 years old. And trying to give you what you need….I didn’t have to try, with Severus. He tells Lily everything,” Ginny said.  
“Sorry I’m not him, then. But, you’re not her, either. And whatever you think you felt when you were pretending to be my mum, it wasn’t real,” Harry said.  
“How come it felt more real than being your girlfriend? If that’s what I was, at all, ever,” Ginny said.  
“Gin, you didn’t say anything to keep me when I tried to break it off,” Harry said.  
“Because I thought you were going off to kill Voldemort, not to fuck Hermione in the TARDIS,” Ginny said coldly.  
“Ginny, no!!! We haven’t!!!I promise, you, we wouldn’t!” Hermione said, shaking her head vehemently.  
Harry felt a stab of horror followed by cold certainty. He knew Hermione. No matter how many tiffs she and Ron had, she helped him study for his exams and write essays. No matter how many times Harry shouted at her, she always came back round and was ready to hear his explanations of how he was feeling. No matter what laws regarding the breeding and retention of dangerous magical creatures it may potentially break, she helped Hagrid when he decided to take in dragons or half-giant half-brothers, and she even tried her best to be patient with Luna’s assertion of the existence of the Crumple Horned Snorcack.  
He knew, without a shadow of a doubt, why Hermione had been placed in Gryffindor rather than Ravenclaw. Cho had not deeply thought for an instant of trying to compromise a way to fit both him and Marietta in her life. A Gryffindor would have fought to maintain both relationships, no matter how many fights that took and how loud and vociferous they got. Hermione was loyal, and he was sure that in her Gryffindor heart the best way forward was to end her romantic relationship with Harry out of respect for Ginny’s feelings, but ask him to continue their friendship.  
His whole body revolted. He didn’t want that. He didn’t want to break up, he didn’t want to be Hermione’s friend. Of course, being her friend was lovely, and she had defined his life with her love…but now, he knew another dimension of that love. He knew her kisses, her passion, her ardor, he knew falling asleep beside her and waking up to her chocolate brown eyes, and he knew what it was to desire her, and know that she wanted him, too. He didn’t want to go back. He’d eavesdropped on the Twelfth Night sermon the night before, and Father Abbot had mentioned not going back when you feel that your heart has been opened. Now, he knew that such a thing would be a condemnation to a life that was no life, at all.  
“And even if we did, I don’t see why it would matter,” Harry said.  
Ginny sighed. “I just wish you would listen to me,” she said.  
“About Snape? Look, even if your theory is correct, you’ve got no business judging my mum, or me, or Hermione, especially after she saved your life,” Harry said.  
“Oh, is that how it is?!” Ginny said, raising her voice in a very Molly-esque way.  
“No, of course not!” Hermione said. “Look, Ginny, I think I know what’s going on, here. Because of how you grew up, and what you went through after the Chamber of Secrets, and how you were treated, you take up for the underdog: Neville, Luna, Hagrid, even Harry when no one believed him about Voldemort being back, or when he used Sectumsempra and I got angry with him. You think the underdog in this situation is Snape. But, take a moment, and reevaluate that. I don’t know if the story he told you about himself, the story that he tells himself and would tell Lily if he could, is exactly what’s true. What I do believe, and I told Harry this, is that Dumbledore did ask Snape to kill him in Draco’s stead, if it came to that.”  
“You…do? And you told Harry that?” Ginny said.  
“Yes!” Hermione insisted.  
“Blimey! I always knew whenever you two had a row, it would be bloody nuclear,” Ron said.  
“Yes, you do both shoot to kill, verbally. But, we need to all be on the same page, here,” Hermione said.  
“Suppose they can’t help it, both being Leos,” Ron said.  
“Who are you, bloody Trelawney?” Ginny said snarkily.  
Harry, Hermione, and Ron all laughed, and the tension seemed to diffuse.  
“I wasn’t having a go at your mum, or your dad, or you and Hermione. I just…felt like you weren’t being fair,” Ginny said.  
“I suppose I have a bit of a bias, when it comes to Snape. He certainly never took it easy on me,” Harry said. “sure, he saved my life, but that’s the only favor he was ever interested in doing me.”  
“Our family, we know a thing or two about being hated just because of who we are. Its like that, Gin. Snape took one look at Harry, and despised him,” Ron said. “You’re not in our year, you wouldn’t understand.”  
“And you weren’t at Hogwarts this year,” Ginny countered.  
“Hold that thought, Ginny; the time’s gotten away from me,” Hermione said.  
“Oh, are you brunching with Princess Anne?” Ginny quipped.  
Hermione ignored her sarcasm, and said, “I’m supposed to be meeting Father Abbot at All Hallows, to speak to Professor Babbling. Of course, she’ll remember me from Ancient Runes, but I suspect Bernard has informed her that I’m going by a false name in Godric’s Hollow.”  
“Right, that funny mark in The Tales of Beedle the Bard,” Ron said.  
“Bernard studied Alchemy at Percival College, he reckons that it has something to do with alchemy. The Peverells were Alchemists, and colleagues of Anthony Woodville,” Hermione said.  
“Was Woodville a great wizard?” Harry asked.  
“He was a half-blood wizard whose mother was a Duchess from the House of Luxembourg, and a descendant of the great sorceress Melusina. His father was a minor nobleman. After the War of the Roses, his sister, Elizabeth Gray, married the newly victorious king, Edward the Fourth, who was interested in what scholars then called ‘The New Learning’: a renewal of the arts and sciences across Europe that we call, today, the Renaissance. Anthony was a great scholar of alchemy, and with Edward as his patron, he travelled all over, collected knowledge, and had his books printed by the first English printer, Caxton,” Hermione explained. “If the Peverells were close to Woodville, they might very well have worked with him on Alchemical experiments, and travelled to the Middle East with him. Sadly, he was executed in a coup by Richard III while escorting his nephew to London to take up his father’s throne.”  
“Was he executed for being a wizard?” Harry asked.  
“I’m sure it didn’t help, in Richard’s estimation,” Hermione said.  
“Didn’t Trelawney go into a trance once in class in Fourth year and say something about his body being buried somewhere under a car park?” Ron said.  
“I can’t remember. All that bloody nag champa burning always gave me migraines, quite wiped my memory,” Harry said.  
“I’ll bet,” Ginny said, rolling her eyes knowingly.  
The little group was startled, and turned to the door, at the sound of a knock on the open door. It was Dudley, holding a steaming pewter mug in his other hand.  
“Oy, Gin-your mum says its time for your Pep-Up potion,” he said.  
“Yeah, well you can tell her-” Ginny began, but after a warning look from Ron she finished with a deflated, “you can tell her….how much I love her. And give that noxious thing here.”  
“I rather like Pep-Up potions,” Ron said.  
“All that bloody peppermint burns my throat,” Ginny groused, but downed the potion while Dudley looked on with a satisfied nod.  
“You want the sports pages from the Daily Prophet? Errol flew in with it a little while ago,” Dudley said.  
“Yeah, sure,” she said grumpily.  
When Dudley was gone, Hermione asked, “Are you…upset with Dudley for some reason?”  
“No, he just clings like wisteria. Merlin’s bollocks! I hate being crowded and petted like a baby or an owl with a broken wing,” Ginny said.  
“He just saw his father tortured by Thorfinn Rowle, and his mum’s a wreck,” Harry said. “he likes you, and taking care of you is how he shows it. Maybe he’s just scared something else bad will happen to you, because he cares.”  
“I know…” she sighed. “I still hate it.”  
“Ginny, if you push away people when they show that they care, you’ll only be surrounded by people who don’t. That’s as good as being alone,” Harry said.  
Hermione looked at him with soft, palpable pride, nodding.  
“Thanks for the sage advice,” Ginny said, with her trademark sarcasm, but this time it was tempered with humor. The trouble with both Ginny and Harry, was that when they were angry that wit became mercilessly pointed and sharp, even cruel. When aimed at each other, when they were both emotional, it quickly became toxic.  
“All right, you two, head up to All Hallows. When you get back, we’ll talk out what you found out, and the state of things at Hogwarts,” Ron said decisively.  
“Sounds like a plan, mate,” Harry said.  
He and Hermione left Ginny’s room, and Harry threw on his cloak as they took the path through the woods to the church.  
“I’m really impressed, I must say, at how you kept your cool, with Ginny, back there,” Hermione said.  
“I knew Snape had been messing with her head. Its him, not her. But, saying that you and I slept together was just a bloody cheap shot,” Harry said.  
“Well, athletes do play to win,” Hermione said.  
Harry laughed, and dryly said, “Oh, come now-all Quidditch players aren’t jackasses. Just McClaggen.”  
Hermione laughed, and said, “It’s a different mindset, isn’t it? That ‘play to win’ mentality. You do anything, say anything, put your back into it or something…you know what I mean. Its almost a sort of…viciousness. And you and Ginny have both got that.”  
“I suppose, but she’s usually using it to defend someone who’s worth it,” Harry said.  
“Oh, like you?” Hermione countered. “but its another thing, when its Snape…”  
“Yeah. Does that make me a hypocrite?” Harry asked.  
“No, not at all. Harry, he gave you every reason to hate him. And, despite his feelings for your mother, I wouldn’t say he’s…fond of you,” Hermione said.  
Harry laughed. “Oh, and I thought his Christmas card had just gotten lost in the mail,” he said. Hermione smiled, and uncannily she met his eyes even though he was invisible. Harry realized she had lived with him and his invisibility cloak for such a long time, she could find him anywhere.  
“You know…you and Ginny, being so alike, is precisely why I thought you and she had a chance at something real,” Hermione said. “I didn't think that maybe disagreeing with someone who is so much like you is…very explosive.”  
“But we’re not alike, really, Ginny and me. She wants to prove something to the world. That she’s not just a baby sister, that her family aren’t blood traitors, that she’s not just the girl who opened the Chamber of Secrets…I don’t want to prove anything, Hermione. Sometimes, I think I just want to escape the world, altogether,” Harry said.  
“Sounds like after this war is over, you deserve a gap year,” Hermione said.  
Harry smiled. “I like the sound of that. You, me, Hawaii? I always wanted to learn how to surf.”  
“Then we must invite Sirius-he’s always wanted to teach you,” Hermione said.  
Harry really liked the sound of that, and reached for Hermione’s hand. The church was in sight, through the thinning trees.


	29. Chapter 29

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Professor Babbling explains; Harry discovers the Resurrection Stone, and speaks to Lily; Hermione makes Harry a promise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It hit me, today, why so many fans seem to gravitate towards a romance between Harry and Hermione rather than the canon pairs. Its rare that Harry goes into a dangerous situation without Hermione. She usually stays with him until the very last moment, as in Philosopher's Stone and Deathly Hallows. The Theban Band, lovers who are stronger because they fight together, as a team, came to mind. They not only have a strong bond as best friends, but they are each others' equals, and that inspires me:)

“Ms. Pope,” Bernard said happily, welcoming Hermione to the empty church. “And, Mr. Potter,” he added, as Harry threw off his cloak.  
Hermione could see the surprise in his eyes flare briefly, but his handsome features smoothed into composure quickly.  
“Thanks for having us,” Harry said.  
“Not at all,” Father Abbot said. “I’m glad to be of any service to the Order of the Phoenix, as is Professor Babbling. Come, this way.”  
He led them upstairs, and knocked on the door of Professor Babbling’s room.  
“Professor?” he asked.  
“Do, come in,” she called, and Bernard opened the door. When it was fully open, Hermione’s heart warmed to the familiar sight of her Ancient Runes professor: she had a stately, handsomely beautiful face, faintly lined with age in such a way that only made her look commandingly venerable, and long, thick, rippling gray hair. She was wearing dark blue velvet robes that gleamed like a dark, polished sapphire, and was wearing a welcoming smile.  
“Professor!” Hermione said happily.  
She was sure neither Ron nor Harry had ever really understood why she took so many classes, but in truth, her electives had been something of a refuge. The students in those classes didn’t exactly get chummy, but they were all united in a common pursuit of more, deeper, more challenging, magic, and never knocked each other for being brainy. In Runes, Arithmancy, and Muggle Studies, she almost felt as if she fit in, with the other more diligent students.  
Professor Babbling smiled warmly, and said, “Miss Pope! One of my finest students. How I missed you, this year!”  
“I’ve missed you, too. I miss everything about Hogwarts,” Hermione confessed.  
Professor Babbling smiled knowingly, and nodded her understanding. She turned to Harry, and said, “Mr. Potter! I know that Dumbledore had a high regard for you, which goes a long way with me, but I regret that I never had the fortune to teach you, myself.”  
“Well, foreign language was never my strong suit,” Harry said.  
Professor Babbling and Hermione laughed. “Harry!” Hermione said, mildly chiding, “Runes aren’t another language, per se. They’re archetypal triggers. When you see the symbol, it responds to the ken of instinct and impulse housed within you already.”  
“Very good, Miss Pope,” Professor Babbling nodded. “Wizards, magi, astrologers and alchemists communicated in symbols for a variety of reasons: to create a common language that the learned could communicate in without risk of being tragically misunderstood, but also to activate latent energies in those who were ready for it.”  
“What does that mean?” Harry asked.  
“Symbols provoke mental and emotional reactions,” Hermione said.  
“Say you grab a bottle, assume that its water, or juice, and begin to drink. Then, as the liquid is splashing upon your tongue and the bottle is turned up in your hands, you see a skull to symbolize ‘poisonous’ emblazoned upon it. How would you feel? How would you react?” Babbling asked.  
“I’d be horrified, I suppose, realizing I’d just drunk poison,” Harry said.  
“Precisely. To the learned, to encounter a symbol whose meaning they know will provoke a corresponding reaction. To those who know the rose means wisdom, or that the staff and serpent means healing, they react in accordance with what they know,” Babbling said.  
“I suppose that makes sense, but, Professor, there’s only one symbol we’d like to know about, today. I think its something Dumbledore left for me to figure out,” Harry said.  
She nodded graciously, unphased by having her Runes lesson cut short. “Yes, the Peverell symbol?” she asked.  
“Yes,” Hermione said. “You see, when Dumbledore left us certain items in his will, we were a bit perplexed when those items were delivered to us, Harry, myself, and Ron Weasley. Ron received a Deluminator, Harry was left the Sword of Gryffindor, but its still at Hogwarts, and Harry can’t go back, this year. As for me, I was given this: a book of Wizarding fairy tales. There was a symbol drawn on this page, at the beginning of The Tale of the Three Brothers.”  
Hermione handed the book to Professor Babbling, and she looked at it with a frown. Harry added, “I’ve seen that symbol, before. A wizard called Xenophilius Lovegood was wearing it, and another wizard, who went to Durmstrang, said that it was Grindelwald’s sign.”  
Hermione could tell that Harry thought this would make a grave impression upon Babbling, but she merely nodded idly, as if he had asked for a one on one meeting about his grade, while she seemed deep in thought.  
“How much did you and Dumbledore discuss, in those private meetings you had in the year of his death, about this symbol?” Babbling asked.  
“Nothing. That’s why we’ve been so lost,” Harry said.  
She looked at Harry scrutinizingly, as if evaluating the truth of his words, or at least how true he thought it was.  
“I see,” she said, and after a pause, Hermione felt the need to prod,  
“Professor, is this a symbol that you are familiar with?”  
She glanced at Bernard, as if he could somehow get an answer out of Babbling. He had been the one to promise her aid, but he was merely standing by like a weatherman while the headline news is being read, and she was being cagey. Hermione was growing frustrated. They had come so far to this moment, been through so much, and she thought that Babbling would answer their questions, not cause more suspense.  
“This is the symbol of the Deathly Hallows,” Babbling said.  
Harry shrugged sarcastically, and made a huffy noise. “Okay, so what are they? Dumbledore never said anything like that, to me. He showed me his memories of Voldemort, told me about the Horcruxes that Voldemort had made, and that I have to destroy.”  
“Balance,” Babbling said. It sounded as if she was telling Harry to calm down, but she continued. “The Horcrux tethers the wizard to life beyond death. The Hallows make the wizard who masters them the Master of Death.”  
“Master of Death?” Bernard whispered, frowning gravely.  
“What does that mean, Professor?” Hermione asked. Harry said nothing, and looked intently at Babbling, urging her with the fiery light in his eyes to continue.  
“Miss Pope, do read to us, from the book you were given. Read, ‘The Tale of the Three Brothers,” Babbling said.  
Hermione didn’t understand, quite, but despite her caginess on this matter, she still trusted Professor Babbling. She opened the book, and began to read, out loud.  
When the tale was done, she closed the book, and saw Bernard and Harry looking at her with patient bafflement, still waiting to see the connection, while Babbling nodded with satisfaction.  
“Do you see, now?” she asked. “who were the three brothers?”  
“Its just a fairy tale,” Harry said, with another insolent shrug. Hermione knew, just as she had known with Ginny, that he didn’t mean to come off as obnoxious or angry. He was frustrated, tired of being terrorized by the madman who had murdered his family, and broken their world.  
Hermione, however, felt that familiar, private magic happening in her own mind when fact was married to understanding. It was like a light turning on, and she smiled, and couldn’t help but burst out, “The Peverell brothers! Cadmus, Ignotus, Antioch! The tale, it’s a symbol, it’s a code, it’s a story that Alchemists passed along to each other! How did it end up in a book of children’s stories?”  
“The gods of old now live in children’s stories, in the Muggle world. Cheerful illustrated editions of The Iliad, The Odyssey, and the stories told in hushed silence of mystery at Eleusis. So it is with us wizards, as well,” Babbling said.  
“But, the Peverells were real people,” Harry pointed out.  
“Were not Nelson, and Churchill? Richard the Lionheart? Now they are legends,” Babbling said, with an airy wave of her hand.

The best Harry could do to describe Bathsheba Babbling was that she was who Trelawney pretended to be. She gave off a potent aura of magic, that was all the more palpable for being concentrated by her calm demeanor. She felt like the edge of the Forbidden Forest. Hermione looked at her with a calm and receptive respect, so different from the way she was usually perched on the edge of her seat and wiggling somewhat to raise her hand and correct a professor, if need be. She was enthralled by listening to Babbling, which did a lot to garner Harry’s respect, too. Hermione could pick a fraud out of a lineup blindfolded, so Babbling must be the real deal.  
“So, this story about the Three Brothers who cheated Death…does this apply to something that really happened to the Peverells?” Harry asked.  
“The legends vary…but, it is said that on their travels to Egypt with Anthony Woodville, the three Peverell brothers crossed the Nile at great peril, and on the other side they were able to penetrate a hidden library of the Magi that no English wizard had set eyes on, before. And this, centuries before the Rosetta Stone was discovered, or Tutankhamen’s tomb discovered,” Babbling said.  
“Did they make the king aware of their discovery? Did Caxton print their findings?” Bernard asked.  
“The brothers secluded themselves to work on creating three Alchemical objects of immense power: a wand of elder, an invisibility cloak that shields its wearer completely and never fades, and a stone that raises an echo of the dead,” Babbling said.  
“Professor, with all due respect, there is no magic that can raise the dead,” Hermione said, but in a much more conversational tone than she would have used with even Binns or Flitwick.  
“Child,” Babbling said fondly. “Recall the words of the story. The brother who brought his beloved back from beyond the Veil did not have the joy of her, did he?”  
“Oh…you’re right! So, an echo of the dead, it isn’t the same?” Hermione said.  
“Meaner than the lowliest ghost,” Harry said.  
Babbling’s, Bernard’s, and Hermione’s eyes flew to Harry, all surprised that he had spoken so eloquently. Hermione, however, frowned, suspecting where the words had come from.  
“That’s what Voldemort said, about when his body was gone. He wasn’t a ghost…but he wasn’t alive either. And, I think it was a torment he never wants to live again,” Harry said.  
Babbling nodded deeply. “Yes. That cloak…have you never noticed a difference between it, and others of its kind?”  
“I’ve heard that it’s a cut above, yeah,” Harry said. Bernard laughed softly.  
Hermione smiled at his insouciant plain-spokenness, and said, “Cloaks made from Demiguise hair generally fade, and their effectiveness can fluctuate. Harry’s was passed down from his father, so it’s quite old, but its never failed us. I think perhaps it never fades.”  
“Albus studied it for years,” Babbling said.  
“He had it! All those years! ‘Mione, my dad lent Dumbledore his cloak…he must have started to suspect there was something special about it, even then,” Harry said.  
“Professor, was Dumbledore interested in the Peverells, and the Deathly Hallows? As Harry is a matrilineal descendant of the Peverells, are all the Hallows truly his?” Hermione asked.  
“Two, certainly, are in his possession,” Babbling said.  
“Two? I’ve only got the cloak,” Harry said.  
“The Snitch! But, Harry’s tried everything to open it,” Hermione said. “Its funny, Snitches are meant to have flesh memory, but its not responded to his touch. It was the first one he ever caught, Dumbledore left it to him.”  
Harry’s eyes widened, and he said, “Hermione, that’s it! My touch…I didn’t catch that Snitch in my hand…I caught it with my mouth! D’you think…?”  
Hermione nodded vigorously. “Yes! Give it a try!”  
Harry took the Snitch from the pouch Hagrid gave him, and, thinking of his 11 year old self, and how Draco had tried to turn his victory into a laughingstock by mimicking for days afterward Harry’s widemouthed catch of the Snitch, he popped it into his mouth. It was cold on his lips, and then suddenly sprung open, and he fumbled to catch something sliding down the front of his shirt.  
He looked in his palm, and saw what he had caught. It was a small, squarish stone that looked like a bit of rough black tourmaline.  
Babbling gasped.  
“Handle that carefully, Mr. Potter, for it is perhaps the most eldritch of them all,” she said.  
Harry didn’t think anyone else he had ever met could have so naturally pulled off saying the word ‘eldritch’; this woman was certainly a wizard’s wizard.  
“But, the wand…?” Bernard said.  
“Many have killed and died for possession of the wand,” Babbling said.  
“Voldemort wants it. The Elder Wand. He kidnapped Ollivander, and killed Gregorivitch…but he’d already lost it, to Gellert Grindelwald,” Harry said. “And before you try to talk round it, we know about Dumbledore and Grindelwald. Do the Deathly Hallows have anything to do with what they were planning?”  
Babbling had clearly read Skeeter’s book, or was more familiar than even the so-called journalist with the story, but Harry had a feeling that she was not going to go into any great detail. He was beginning to understand, now, that wizards were more long-lived than Muggles, and this accounted for their lives of secrecy. Keeping those secrets became second nature, or perhaps it was always apart of their nature and the secrets came accordingly, as they lived. Had he been too hard on Dumbledore, expecting him to reveal sensitive things?  
He realized that he was nervously twiddling with the stone, while he waited for Babbling’s answer.  
“Harry, don’t play with it,” Hermione instructed.  
“We don’t even know how it works,” Harry said, as he turned the stone in his hand once, twice, thrice…  
On the third turn, a seam seemed to rip in the air, and Lily Potter tumbled out of it, grasping the floor, looking bewildered, taking her first breath in sixteen years.  
Hermione covered her mouth to swallow a breathy gasp that was nearly a scream. Bernard’s eyes widened in horror, and Harry could tell that until this moment, Alchemy had been only theoretical and historical, to him. Babbling held her hand out for the stone, as if Harry was now forbidden it, like a child who had begged to play with a toy too complicated for them.  
He wouldn’t let it go. He knelt beside his mother, and held his hand out to her.  
“Harry…?” she said.  
Her voice seemed to wake him from a deep sleep, the sleep of his whole life. He had looked for her everywhere, and she had only been a rumor, a whisper, not enough to remember or shelter in. Now, she was here, and he had the distinct impression, like a second heartbeat, that their time would be short.  
Their eyes, which were the same exact shape and color, met. She smiled. Ginny did not look as much like his mother as he had thought, or perhaps, in a way, hoped. His mother’s face was round and sweet, and her figure was slender but soft, with no hint of athletic cultivation. She was, like Hermione, of middling height, neither tall nor short, and rather than a straight, blazing flag of flame like Ginny’s hair, Lily's was a rippling, wavy veil of flame tinged auburn. She was not much older than Harry was, he realized. Voldemort had called her a girl, and he must have thought that she was one, that she would collapse into incoherent tears and sobbing inaction as he killed her baby, just after he had killed her husband, that she would live, but be too broken to know or care when she was given to Snape as his reward.  
But her eyes were the most aware and penetrating Harry had ever gazed into. This was the woman who had died for him, and she remembered it, she knew him, and her eyes told him that she was well pleased at how he had grown, and that he had lived.  
“Oh, Harry,” she said, as if apologizing. Harry’s eyes were hungry to behold as much of Lily as he could, but he couldn’t resist a glance at Hermione, who was crying with joy and awe, an excess of it, as she had at Bill’s and Fleur’s wedding.  
“Mum,” Harry whispered, having never said it before, in his memory.  
Lily stood.  
“Let’s go for a walk, shall we?” she asked.  
Harry nodded. His throat was too full for words, and his heart was hammering, as he and his mother’s ghost walked out into the snow.

“Mum…I don’t know how to put this…but, what are you?” Harry asked. “I mean, you’re not solid, like a living person, but you’re not see-through, like Nearly Headless Nick, either.”  
Lily threw her head back and laughed merrily. Now that they were outside, he could see that her skin and hair, and even her clothes, had an unearthly sheen, and time in her presence seemed to flow in cursive arcs, passing slowly and unevenly.  
“Ah, Nick-he’s a well of information, isn’t he?” Lily said. “always so helpful!”  
“Where were you, before I called you?” Harry asked.  
“I used to wonder that about you,” Lily said, smiling lovingly. “Where were you, before you came to us…?”  
“Mum,” Harry groaned.  
She laughed again, softer this time. “I’m sorry, Harry. What is it you want to know, sweetheart? I know our time is short…I have so much to tell you. You have been so brave, it breaks my heart….but I’m very, very proud of you. But I’m not here to tell you the things that are in my heart. I’m here to answer your questions, aren’t I?”  
“I don’t know if I have any…I just…I want…why can’t all this be over? Why can’t I go home?” Harry asked. “I’ve always just…wanted to go home…”  
Lily’s eyes were leveled with sadness. Like Harry’s they turned darker with strong emotion, and smoldered with inner light. She nodded slowly, and sadly, looking deeply into his eyes. She touched his face with her slightly cold, airy hands.  
“You remember me. You remember us. Harry, you have never forgotten, and you never can forget, what it means to love, and be loved,” Lily said. “You never had to search, you never had to mourn, you never had to pretend, or accept anything less than love. You know, Harry.”  
“You sound like Dumbledore. What does that mean?! What difference does love make, Mum?” Harry said.  
She remained steady as he raged, and said, “Harry, because you love, you want to live. But, because you love, you’re not afraid to die for those whose lives you want to protect. Because you love, you understand life, and death.”  
“I don’t know what to do,” Harry said.  
“You will. You have everything you need,” Lily said.  
“Love,” Harry said skeptically.  
“Yes,” she said. “Harry, to love another person is to see the face of God.”  
Harry smiled. Remus had told him the same thing…it was as if his mother was letting him know that she had been there, all the time. He was about to ask his mother a question, but it was rocked from his mind and he could never, afterwards, recall what the question was. When his sight emerged from a brief blink, the apparition of Lily was gone.  
“Harry!” Hermione called.  
Suddenly, he felt the cold, as he had not in his mother’s presence, and he was beginning to feel alone as he never had before when he looked into Hermione’s eyes. He was slightly afraid, and he realized it was of himself. What kind of wizard was he? He felt as if he had failed at something, been tainted by something, and an emptiness he had not been aware of. He felt grateful that Hermione wasn’t shrinking away, that she was not afraid of him, and that she was walking towards him, with hurried steps in the snow.  
“Was that really her?” Hermione asked.  
“I think so,” Harry said.  
“What did she…I mean, if its not too private…?” Hermione said.  
“That I…can love,” Harry said. “I think I understand, now. I didn’t, when Dumbledore told me. I didn’t know what love was.”  
Hermione nodded. They both understood, but it was hard to put into words, the profound simplicity that all strengths come from knowing how to love, and all failures come from ignorance of this.  
“Harry, I’m not going to leave you,” Hermione said.  
“I don’t know how much longer calling yourself ‘Belinda Pope’ is going to protect you,” Harry said.  
“I’ll protect myself,” Hermione said. “Have you ever heard of the Theban Band?”  
“Um…I’m a bit shaky on wizard rock music,” Harry said.  
“No!” Hermione laughed, and said, “They were warriors, in Ancient Greece. And each team of warriors, called parabatai, were also…lovers. The tradition was encouraged for ages. The belief was that fighting beside the person you love made you stronger. You’ll fight your hardest, to protect them, and fight smart, to live for them.”  
She spoke passionately, looking deeply into his eyes, the stars in her eyes bright as Venus at the dawn and the twilight. She was so warm alive in the snow-covered cemetery.  
“You’re not afraid of me?” he whispered.  
“What? No!” Hermione said.  
“I think I’m afraid of myself….Hermione, I raised the dead! I just talked to my dead mum! Master of Death…what does that mean?” Harry said.

He was terrified. Now, she understood, what it must have felt like, to hear the language of snakes pour from his mouth and suspect, along with the rest of their school, that he was the Heir of Slytherin, to see visions of Voldemort’s actions and thoughts, and feel his emotions, such as they were. Harry was terrified of himself. Hermione loved him too much, to be afraid. She knew him, knew his strength, and just how vulnerable he was, and the purity cradled in the center of the forbiddingly bright light with which he shone. She threw her arms around him, and held him close. His arms came around her waist, tight, and she felt that she had a place in the Wizarding World, at last…not a school which she would have to leave one day, not a friend’s house for the holiday: a home.


	30. Chapter 30

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry and Hermione discover a new ability; Professor Babbling gives them hope

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments are open again; let me know what you think of the story so far, but be mindful and kind! Thank you for following.

“Mione…” Harry murmured in the snow dappled nest of Hermione’s full, curly hair, as they held each other tight against the cold, snow-laden air.

She felt his breath like a passing ghost against her neck, and her skin broke out in shivers beneath her coat and her clothes at the touch of Harry’s breath. 

Aroused though she was, she knew that Harry wasn’t intentionally trying to titillate her, he needed comfort. She felt warmth swell in her heart, love flooding her, like when she cast a Patronus. She wanted to heal Harry’s heart and soul, take all of his shame, confusion, grief, and self-loathing away. As she caressed his thin back, thinner than ever since their travels began.

“So warm…” Harry murmured, and the pleasure Hermione took from the relief in his voice was palpable and suffused through her.

“Mione…your hands?” Harry said.

She heard not just pleasure in his voice, but a curious edge, as if he had noticed something. 

Hermione looked down. Her hands were glowing! They were warm, and bathed in white light.

“Harry…I don’t know what’s happening!” Hermione said. Harry's green eyes widened in alarm. It was seldom that Hermione didn’t have a keen grasp, keener than he, on what a magical phenomenon was. Harry looked down, and when his eyes met her’s again, they looked calm and resolute. He touched his palm against hers’. His hand, too, was shining with warm light.  
Hermione gasped when her light touched his. 

Over her shoulder, she saw Professor Babbling. 

“Ah. The Palm of St. Roch,” she said.

“What is that?” Hermione asked.

“It’s the ability to heal with the touch of one’s hand, through vital energy,” Professor Babbling. “Its very rare. In fact, some believe it is only medieval legend.”

The light faded, and Hermione felt only the touch of Harry’s skin against her’s, as they looked at each other in astonishment, and a connection for which there were no adequate words.  
“I heard a lot about your…exploits, at Hogwarts, the two of you. Perhaps no witch and wizard have had such a bond since Morgana and Merlin,” Babbling said.

“No!” Hermione said in alarm. “We can’t be like them! They failed their kingdom, their world was lost!”

Then she remembered what Morgana had said, that she and Harry would succeed where she, Morgana, and Merlin had failed.

Harry took Hermione’s hand, and wound their fingers together, as if feeling that she needed support at that moment.

“Professor, why do me and Hermione have this ability, this Palm of St. Roch?” Harry asked.

“Did either of you encounter a strong healing entity, through the course of your travels?” Babbling asked.

Harry looked at the snow, embarrassment flashing in his emerald eyes, then he met Babbling’s eyes and said, “We went to the Ether, the realms of primal magic. It was a strange place. We were starving, we hadn’t eaten properly in a long time, and…we found this fruit tree. I was selfish; I encouraged Hermione to eat the fruit, and…she got sick. She was so pale, and still..”

Hermione squeezed his hand, as his voice broke. She wanted him to know that she forgave him.

“A bird came. A caladrius. It healed her, and it gave us one of its feathers. Hermione used it to heal me, from the Horcrux inside me, when Sirius banished it…and, now both our Patronuses are caladriuses,” Harry said.

Hermione looked at him as he spoke. She knew how difficult it was for him to talk about all of this. She caressed the inside of his palm with her thumb. His hand was still so warm. 

“Hmm…so, you have both taken the caladrius’s healing properties within yourselves-but, it was the great love between you two which compelled you to share it. When we reach heights of great love, we are compelled perhaps by the powerful force of that love itself to share it. With our beloved, firstly, and then with the world. All great traditions have their mystic saints, the outstandingly devoted, who have healed with their touch, given their lives for the world, or written poems and sang songs that endure with light even in the darkest of times. Those saints are emboldened by love. That is their power, and that is their gift. Their love is for their god, and they share it with the world. But, so too can love of country, of tribe, of home, or of the beloved be shared with the world,” Babbling said.  
“Like…the Theban band. Because they loved each other, they fought for each other,” Harry said, looking into Hermione’s eyes. She smiled, and said,  
“Glad you remember that.”

“Be empowered by your love. Let it guide you,” Babbling said. “Perhaps that is the difference between the two of you, and Morgana and Merlin.”


End file.
